Wanderer  Wreythe's Vision
by Marcus the Iron Raven
Summary: Meet Dyson Wreythe, the loner with the skills few can employ. Cunning and merciless while still good-hearted and intelligent, Wreythe cuts down all in the way of his objective: to save the surviving people from themselves.
1. Chapter 1: Rain

Author's Notes:  
As you'll be able to tell, I wrote this story very differently from it's parent, "Wanderer – Aftermath". I personalized this one far more, focusing on Wreythe and just some of the things he had been through, while explaining several facts about the character.

I realize that Wanderer – Aftermath is extremely hard to actually 'pick up and read' so to speak, as even I can admit the first chapter is a very tedious read, however you don't need to read Wanderer to understand Wreythe's Vision, and I have decided to make all the chapters within Wreythe's Vision to be of 'shortish' length, so it's doubtful there will be any chapters nearly as long as the ones within Wanderer.

Any feedback would be appreciated.

* * *

Dust.

Two-hundred years ago, the world has become dust.

Not all of it, mind you, just portions.

Sometimes these portions were as big as a city, other times entire countries had been wiped out.

The United States of America was no longer, but I still had a job to do.

The lowly pigeon, one of the last of its kind in the area, was busy pecking at the ground, hoping to find some source of food, when the stranger appeared. The pigeon didn't know what to make of this; for one thing, it had never even seen a human before, and was puzzled by this sight. The other thing, of course, was that the pigeon didn't have to make anything of this, for he was just a lowly pigeon, and as such wasn't constrained to the same misconception as humanity had that it had to poke it's nose, erm, beak into everyone's business.

Flipping his sunglasses down, shielding his eyes against the harsh sun, the stranger walked past the pigeon, giving it only a cursory glance as he did. A light breeze went through the man-made valley of craters, billowing the strangers tattered coat, exposing the side-arm on his belt; a .45 caliber M1911 that he had picked up somewhere near Denver off the dead corpse of a malcontent. Strapped to the stranger's back was a hunting rifle; a scoped Remington 700 that he had liberated from the hand's of a particularly tired sentry in Las Vegas, and by the way the stranger continuously reached back to feel the butt of the rifle, even a pigeon could see he adored the gun.

The stranger wandered up the edge of a crater, its radius easily reaching a mile, and stared at the horizon, pulling out a pair of worn binoculars from his belt.

Dyson Wreythe had been to the flooded Houston where he had picked his way through the rubble that once was NASA's Johnson Space Center, he had visited the hell that once was Las Vegas and blew up Caesar's Palace, and had even swam to see the once-legendary Miami, just because he felt like it, but nothing came close to what he was seeing here, in the city once known as Los Angeles.

It was as if someone had taken a big blob of dough, built a miniature city on it, then smashed it repeatedly with a mallet, then baked the whole damn thing. There was barely anything left. If there was a place that Wreythe truly could say was the visage of Hell itself, it'd be Los Angeles; it was as if the whole thing had become one massive scorched desert, with only the rare house or two standing as far as Wreythe could tell, but a 'house' may be too strong of a word.

Panels of burnt timber, held together by brick and mortar. That's it. They could barely even offer protection from rain, let alone provide shelter against raiders or equally-violent locals, if there were any locals. Wreythe couldn't see any, but the area didn't exactly look like it was a smorgus-board to the self-respecting average scavenger.

It was literally a desert.

Well, that wasn't exactly true, rain had gathered in some of the craters, forming lakes, but doubtless the water was irradiated, after all, it was probably a ten-megaton bomb that made that crater.

_Los Angeles, the City of Lost Angels, centre of the planet's attention; maker of movies, spinner of records, retailer of everything, ever. No other city was like this place, and only I remember it as it was._

_

* * *

_

Two weeks passed as Wreythe eked out an existence; picking through the piles of rubble, searching through the debris of a previous life, and trying to find any scrap of… of anything that he could find.

Wreythe spent many of the past years doing this, going from city to city, either scavenging or hunting, whether he had to dig, crawl or kill.

Wreythe was a hunter of dreams.

Wreythe was the destroyer of dreams.

Wreythe was the fulfiller of dreams.

He wasn't unhappy about his choices in life; in fact he loved the life, being a nomad, doing whatever he wanted, banging whatever pussy he could find, it was the life! It was the other things though, that sometimes made it hard to deal with; the raiders firing at the interloper stealing their fortunes, the gangs infesting every pocket of former-civilization, and the heat! The god-awful heat! It rarely rained anymore, something Wreythe had noticed over the years.

_It used to rain almost every week, and all we'd have to do is turn on our taps and collect the purified source of life in our clean cups and bring it to our lips, we could have however much we desired._

Now Wreythe sometimes went for weeks without finding a fresh well of water, needing to survive on the various bottled drinks he kept in his bag. While Cola was nice, drinking it every day was tedious at best.

_It's funny; you never know how much you miss these things until they aren't there anymore._

Wreythe didn't notice the rifle barrel aimed at his head until he heard the bolt being pulled back.

"Hey, is there anyway we can end this without me being dead?" asked the now-worried Wreythe, his hands straight up in the air, his attacker just out of his eye-line.

"Unless you can give me a damned fine explanation, then I'm 'fraid we can't."

It was a woman, Wreythe was interested to note, and not only a woman, but a woman who was plainly scared out of her mind right now.

The pigeon, however, was watching this all rather peculiarly, and rethought his decision about not retiring; plainly, his memory was failing. Wreythe however, wasn't thinking at all about the pigeon, and decided to try another tact.

"My name is Dyson Wreythe, and I'm not here to hurt you. I'm simply trying to find something a friend of mine told me would be here."

"Which is?"

"I'm not sure," admitted Wreythe. "It's some sort of invitation. I don't really know much about it, I was paid to come here and find it."

Now the woman was interested. "Who paid you?"

"Tennyson, the Mayor of Grainyard, near Denver."

A click sounded, and the woman had come around to stand directly in front of Wreythe, searching his face for something. She had dark, almost red-brown hair, with grey eyes and a cute nose. She was of a fair height, and of an average build, but she couldn't have been any older then 20. She had been wearing a type of segmented leather army, straps holding it in place, while her arms were bare. She carried almost casually a proper sniper rifle, not like Wreythe's.

"Nice gun, huh? We're not like the usual riff-raff you find in the wastes; NCR has all the best stuff."

NCR. Wreythe had heard of it before, back down in Texas. A group of raiders whom he'd been stalking had gathered around a campfire one night, and Wreythe had been patient enough to listen in before dropping in and slaughtering them all.

"You guys hear of that place up in the east?" asked the first raider, peeling open a can of beer.

"Nah, too fucking busy pounding to give a damn about any shit, what's it?" replied a raider disdainfully.

"Apparently some bitch in California went and organized an entire city! She went and gathered people from all 'round, and now they've got a massive fucking city!"

"Bullshit" laughed one of the raiders, spilling his beer.

"Nah, it's true, Chenga told me. He said he's been there; they've built up an entire city from nothing, population at around six-hundred-thousand and they've even got a whole army!"

It was at this point Wreythe had swooped in and killed everyone, and he was beginning to wonder if that was the smartest idea in his life, however, he was sure he could deal with some snot-nosed woman who thought she could get the drop on him.

Wreythe allowed himself to be taken out of the crater field by the woman, keeping his hands up in the air the entire time, but he noticed her guard was lax, as if she was expecting someone or something, and was too busy scanning the horizon to keep both eyes on Wreythe.

Wreythe exploded into action, crouching and closing the gap between them within a split-second, and before the woman knew what was happening, he had grabbed the rifle's barrel with one hand and moved it aside while his other hand had already pulled out his M1911, and he aimed it directly at her head. The woman whimpered as Wreythe checked her for any further weapons, finding only several fragmentation grenades.

"Now missy, start talkin'; who are you, who sent you and why are you interested in this goddamn junkyard."

Taking a deep breath, the woman slowly moved her hand to her pocket, and pulled out a plastic card.

_Name: Rain Munroe, LCpl._

_Sex: F_

_D.O.B: 08/16/2194_

_Place of Birth: Sphere Seven_

_General Access Level: 4_

_Security Access Level: 3_

Wreythe mulled this over before looking back up, staring at the Lance-Corporal inquisitively. "So, you're in the army, eh?"

"Yes."

"What's Sphere Seven?"

"I don't rightfully know. I grew up in a land full of corpses and sand; my family took the first boat here when they got the chance." However Wreythe wasn't stupid, he could see there was a lot more behind her story, but he moved on anyways. "Where are you based now, and what are your orders?"

But this time the woman said nothing, her back straightened, and she stared straight ahead, ignoring Wreythe. Wreythe began to get angry, and was about to ask her again, when he began to hear something that made his hair stand right up. A low rumbling sound was building up, as if coming closer and closer, and almost afraid of what he might see, Wreythe turned to see what Munroe was looking at.

A giant eighteen-wheeler stormed towards the pair, bounding over the ruined highway and going at speeds that could leave Wreythe a very, very broken man. A black snake charging its prey. The din rose and soon Wreythe couldn't hear anything as the truck applied the brakes, screeching to a halt only meters away. Wreythe hadn't seen anything like this for years; it had a brand-new black paintjob, the windows had been tinted and a vinyl on the body had read '_NCR Marine Corps' _in white, bold striking letters.

Gob-smacked, Wreythe was soon knocked out, unconscious of the fact that Lance-Corporal Munroe had taken the opportunity to take her rifle out of his unresponsive fingers and butted him in the side of the head.


	2. Chapter 2: Contra

Dyson Wreythe awoke with an aching head. His eyes shut tight against the sudden pain, he gingerly reached up and prodded the back of his head, and sure enough, he could feel a bump gracing his head.

"That bitch," groaned Wreythe, as he slowly opened his eyes and took in his surroundings.

He found himself in a cell, as far as he could tell; a windowless room of brick walls, and iron bars guarding his escape. A mattress, no doubt infested with cockroaches and other nasty creatures, lay in the corner, while a hole in the dirt ground marked where the toilet was. Over by the opposite wall lay a mound of rags. The smell of festering wounds and oozing blood was caught in his nostrils, any lesser man would have pitched forward right there, but Wreythe was well used to the smell. A single, solitary light bulb flickered just outside the cell, barely lighting the small room at all. Peering through the bars, Wreythe could see an entire corridor of cells just like his, and from the movement in the shadows he could tell most of them were inhabited.

Wreythe settled back into his cell, and lay on the mattress, the pressure causing the cockroaches to leave the safety of the underside and scurry forth. With his quick reflexes it was no problem for Wreythe to catch and crush the heads of over a dozen cockroaches; after all, who'd know when he'd finally be fed, and a cockroach was better then nothing.

"Yo' be plannin' on sharin' dat?" A voice crawled out from the mound of rags..

"I'm sorry, but my mother always told me not to speak to a pile of crap," answered Wreythe, popping a cockroach into his mouth, then grimacing from the horrible aftertaste. Wreythe was used to eating cockroaches, the most widely-available bug life living in the world, but usually ate them roasted, only raw when no fire could be had.

"Dat be cute," snorted the mound of rags, and a head emerged near one end. "How 'bout now den?"

Wreythe threw a headless cockroach to the dark-skinned, fairly ugly head that the rags had just grown. Long dreadlocks piled on the floor behind the head, and an arm extended from another entrance from the mound to catch the flying morsel, which was quickly bitten into and swallowed. "Dat be some good crunch man, some good crunch."

The former-mound of rags picked itself up, revealing a tall man hiding inside the waterfall of cascading cloth, his white teeth shining in contrast with his dark, tanned skin. Combined with a face like that, it would leave Wreythe with nightmares for month, dreaming of militaristic mounds of rags with ugly faces, marching with guns drawn while smiling, their teeth like flashlights.

"Yo' man, so who are you?"

"Wreythe, you?"

Suddenly the man stopped chewing, his face screwed up with concentration.

"I know dat name. You were at Vegas?"

"Yeah, I've been there. I was there maybe a few months ago, maybe more."

"Yo don' be dat same Wreythe who came t' da Palace 'n told Caesar he could piss off? Da same Wreythe who went n' blew up da damn Palace, scatterin' da legion well 'n good?"

Wreythe tried to think quickly, but his brain seemed tired and the bump really ached badly, so he went with something stupid. "If I say I'm not, will you believe me?"

The dark man sat still for a moment, and then he pulled his head back and laughed deeply. His laughter was so contagious that Wreythe couldn't help joining him.

"Dat be cute, man. Dat be cute. I know it be yo', but I don' care, yo' saved me from dose assholes. Caesar pick'd me up down south, n' I got given a choice; join or push up da daisies. Da name's Contra," laughed the dark man, offering a hand, which Wreythe leaned forward and shook.

"Why Contra?" Sort of a strange name, isn't it?" asked Wreythe.

"Same as me askin', 'why Wreythe?' My parent's call'd me Contra, on accoun' of dem not knowin' what a contraceptive is, n' only bein' told later."

Wreythe laughed some more, then sort for a second. "What's wrong with my name?"

"What's yo' firs' name?"

"Dyson," answered Wreythe, biting into another cockroach and offering Contra one.

"Dyson Wreythe, eh? Yo' know dat be cute, Wreythe, just like one of dem wraiths, yeah? Always hidin' and hauntin', yeah?" Wreythe thought about those words for a moment. It was true that he never really liked being in the limelight, and usually moved from state to state, scavenging and helping the occasional group of migrants while slaughtering all the raiders and gangers he could find, so Contra's description was true he supposed.

"Where are the rest of the legionaries? There were thousands of you."

"Man, yo' did somethin' real big dat day; yo' killed Caesar, you gone 'n blew up da Palace, n' screwed up dem plans which Caesar 'n his main men be hatchin'. We all left Vegas n' travelled in different directions, me n' a bunch of dem boys came up here, hopin' dat this bitch-queen would let us join, become proper-like souljas n' all dat. 'Stead she wen' n' threw us all in jail. Some of da boys already be dead, but some are still 'round."

"Bitch-queen?"

"Dat be Tandi, da leader 'round here at NCR."

NCR, there was that name again. Wreythe didn't want to ask Contra any more questions about NCR, partly because he didn't think Contra would know too much, and partly because his accent was beginning to get on his nerves. So instead he sat and listened to the descendant of the Caribbean, offering his own chatter occasionally while thinking.

_It's amazing how racial characteristics didn't die out with the war. One would think that multi-culturalism would be destroyed by a worldwide war; it was nice to know that logic doesn't always dictate how the world runs._

Contra's voice was doing hell to Wreythe's headache, so he feigned falling asleep, and finally his new friend's voice died out, and he retreated back into his mound.

* * *

"You, the new guy, get up!"

A rough, male voice entered Wreythe's sleep and woke him, and he looked outside his cell to see a male guard, dressed in pure black and a long jagged scar crossing his face, accompanied by a young woman with a her dark-red hair done up in a long ponytail , dressed in red segmented-leather armor.

"Hey Lance-Corporal, what's up?" asked Wreythe sleepily, getting up from his bed, dozens of cockroaches being dislodged from their hiding place under his sleeping form. The cell door was opened and Rain Munroe walked in, carrying a baton, her grey eyes sweeping over Wreythe and his surroundings. "Your being summoned to see a judge who will determine whether your to be jailed or not."

"What about him?" Wreythe gestured towards the pile in his cell.

"There's something in there?" asked Rain incredulously. Taking a clip board from the security guard, Rain ran her finger down the list of prisoners, stopping on one. "Contra, member of Caesar's XII Legion, correct? What about him?"

"I want him to come with me."

Contra shifted in his pile and slid out, grinning inanely while Rain's eyes narrowed. "You realize that he is a criminal, and his presence is likely to damage your own court appearance?"

"Yep. Did he have a trial?"

"Well, no, but-"

"According to the law, set down by the old ways, a man is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Therefore I am taking Contra with me, as he hasn't been proven guilty." Wreythe bent down and grabbed Contra by one forearm, and hoisted him up, the tall, athletic man towering even over Wreythe's 6' 1" build. Was his mother a giraffe?

But Rain stood adamant, and smirked. "How about the rest of the scum we captured? Are you going to make us convict all of them in a court case? Are we going to bring every one of those thieves and murderers in front of a jury and pass a verdict we can already deduce?"

"They came here to join NCR and offer their services as soldiers."

"No they didn't. They were going to do what all the rest do; take the armor, weapons and rations we supply, and then go disappear on a patrol route. We've had his kind here before, and without fail that's what they all do," argued Rain, almost cocksure in her manner. Wreythe looked at the scarred guard waiting patiently.

"You, where'd you get that nasty scar from?"

The guard looked surprised. "Used to work over in New Reno, I was a bodyguard for the Salvatore family. One day some punk comes at the boss with a knife, I step in the way and get this for my troubles."

Wreythe grinned and turned back to Rain. "So you'll employ former gangsters without a problem? How many people do you think this man has killed?"

The guard coughed uncomfortably. "I kind of lost count by my fifth year."

Rain glared at the guard, then at Wreythe. Within minutes the small group was rushing through several underground bricked corridors, almost running past the odd security officer who would nod to Rain. After jogging for almost five minutes, the scarred guard left the group while Rain handcuffed Wreythe and Contra together, then brought the bound pair up some steps into a brightly-lit chamber.

The room was roughly as long and wide as half a basketball court, Wreythe reckoned, and the ceiling was high enough to fit several men of Contra's height to stand on each other's shoulders and still fit easily. Cluttered about the room were several long tables, one of which was lined with various men and women dressed in a variety of clothing, from farmers in their overalls to government men dressed in suits and ties. Rain explained to Wreythe that this committee was in charge of refugees, and would interview Wreythe and Contra and decide whether they should be allowed to apply for citizenship here in the New California Republic.

"But I don't want to be a citizen, I was just sent here to pick something up from the ruins!"

"Doesn't matter, you were caught on NCR territory without first getting a license from Shady Sands, Boneyard, Maxson, the Hub or Dayglow. Getting the permit from any one of our towns would have allowed you free access to roam around, but now you've got to apply or be tried as a trespasser, I'm doing you a favor here," whispered Rain, then walked Wreythe in front of the committee first while Contra waited next to him, looking up into nothingness.

Wreythe had already been talking to the committee for almost half an hour when the set of double doors at one end of the room burst open, a middle-aged woman wearing long orange robes strode in, her brown eyes flashing with irritation while she moved her long grey hair away from her face. Tandi, the leader of the New California Republic and one of the most powerful people of the West Coast walked right up to Wreythe wrapped both of her long, skinny arms around his body and hugged him hard while Wreythe stood there dumbfounded. Pulling back, Tandi smiled and offered a hand.

"I'm sorry about that, it's not every day you meet the man who ended a war that had been raging for decades with a single action. Yes, your reputation precedes you, Dyson Wreythe, Wanderer of the Wastes. I am Tandi, leader of the New California Republic and the one person who can grant you anything you desire, right here and now."

"I'd settle for a cup of tea if you have any," answered Wreythe, unaccustomed to being welcomed so formally.

"Yes, of course, I'll ask Lance-Corporal Munroe to escort you to my home where you can join me for dinner. I'm hoping we can discuss a proposition I have."

Wreythe knew there had to be a catch, there was no way Tandi would reward Wreythe for something he did on his own, she looked much too shrewd for that. "What sort of proposition?"

"We've got some problems east; we've been trying to get New Reno to join the Republic for a while now, as well as Carson City, but both groups have refused to unless we can deal with the raiders who plague their land."  
"And why should I do this for you, this kind of work is dangerous after all."

Tandi smiled, and immediately Wreythe realized exactly how devious the woman really was. "Because I can very easily just lock you in a cell and throw away the key, Dyson Wreythe. You know there's a bounty on your head back in Claycity? Turns out you stole quite a bit of tech from the bandit king over there, some of my Rangers picked up a messenger who was carrying a message to Caesar regarding the theft. So if you do me this tiny favor, I'll forget about imprisoning you or sending you in a body bag back to Claycity and instead I'll reward you with a good pile of cash, the opportunity to join my Rangers and a citizenship to live in the NCR, as well as a permit to travel in our territory and take in the sights."

Wreythe thought about this offer very quickly. "You've got a deal."

* * *

Author's note:  
Writing this was like a vacation after writing the longer chapters of Aftermath


	3. Chapter 3: Mojave

Author's Notes:  
As you can imagine, the moment New Vegas came out I was all over it and played it to death. Naturally, i've gone way off the mark with this story, however the whole idea right from the start was to offer a different universe with several parallel similiarities.  
Oh, and the inconsistency with the way people name Vegas is on purpose. Some call it Las Vegas, some call it New Vegas.  
Have fun, and any feedback would be awesome

* * *

Wiping the sand from his goggles, Wreythe brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes and peered through, adjusting the focus as he saw fit. Almost five-hundred and fifty yards away a caravan was passing through the Mojave Wasteland; it's Brahmin plodding along as the guards comfortably led, cocksure in their own abilities to fight off any danger. He had been lying in a dune of sand, waiting for almost eight hours for the caravan to come by. Taking a closer look at the caravan, Wreythe noticed the name of the trading company sprayed onto the side of the cart being pulled by the lead Brahmin. The lead guard was sporting a sniper rifle slung over his leather armor and this was bad news to Wreythe. The other small arms being carried by the other three guards comprised of a few pistols and shotguns were easy enough to deal with from a distance, but that sniper would provide a bit of difficulty.

The Dear Johns, Tandi had explained two days earlier, were a trading company which dealt primarily with the sales of weapons and armor, often putting it at odds with the Gun Runners. Grown from a small marketplace booth back west in the ruins of New Orleans, now commonly known more simply as 'New O', the Johns had begun trading where most others traders wouldn't dare to cross; the dens and lairs of the various gangs spread across the country. They profited immensely from their vile clients, and began spreading east.

Crossing into Fairland, the Johns moved into a ruined shop and began to seek the undesirables of the town, offering jobs and power if they joined the Dear Johns. Soon word spread in the east about a company that would hire anyone, regardless of their present or past employment. Entire tribes of men and women joined the Dear Johns, all hoping to get a piece of the action and claim dominance over the wasteland.

However, now they were moving supplies somewhere into the Mojave, making the NCR rightfully nervous. The NCR were still recovering after their war with the Legion; the decades had taken a lot out of them, and now they had ex-legionnaires to worry about including roving warbands wielding weaponry and exhibiting training that could easily overwhelm green troops.

Unable to simply just fire upon the caravans, therefore losing creditability amongst the other trading corporations, Tandi had hired Wreythe to go and investigate where the Dear Johns were moving supplies and for what purpose.

"Da bleedin' sun is gonna have me bones," moaned the ex-Legionnarie lying beside Wreythe while holding both Wreythe's scoped Remington 700 and his own beaten-up M16 assault rifle. Both men were dressed in long robes with the cowl pulled down.

"Better your bones than your brain, we've got people who'd love a real human brain to play with."  
Sitting at the bottom of the dune was Lance-Corporal Rain Munroe, her reddish-brown hair tied into a ponytail and a pair of aviators shielding her eyes from the harsh sun. Unlike the two men, she was dressed in a mercenary's standard garb; dark leather armor, a helmet with adjustable goggles and carried a customized M3 submachine gun that sported a drum magazine and an adjustable stock.

"What's wit' all da hostility, Lance-Corporal? Can't us all jus' get along?" mocked Contra, smiling widely. The three of them had been barely able to keep things civil over the past two deals, all three of their bickering at the smallest problem. Wreythe thought Contra was too lazy and Rain too uptight, Contra thought Wreythe couldn't 'chill' and Rain was a bitch of the NCR, while Rain thought of both men as being wandering vagabonds who believed they owned everything. Only after Rain had jumped and almost choked Contra to death after he called her a whore, but Wreythe had come between them and pulled Rain off, making them promise to keep things more or less peaceful.

"Shut up, I'm trying to think," snarled Wreythe, putting his binoculars down. A difficult choice faced him. On one hand, he could just stroll right up to the caravan and ask if they could travel together, under the guise of two cultists with their bodyguard. On the other hand, simply killing everyone and checking the shipping manifest would also provide details. Wreythe was no murderer, but these were bad people who were putting weapons into the wrong hands. He asked the pair for their opinion.

"Do it man, why da fuck would we wanna even talk t' assholes like dat?"

"Like you can talk, you were in Caesar's Legion! He probably even had dealings with these people. I say we talk to them like the original plan. That's why we're disguised, right?"

"Yeah," Wreythe agreed, "but that all hinged on them not having enough firepower to send up to Hell and back in a split second. If they can tell we're not some fanatic cultists but spies from the NCR, we're dead." _And it's not uncommon for cultists and fanatics to be fired upon on sight, people preaching religion and peace don't often go down well with munitions traders._

_It's the way of the desert; you take a risk and place your bets, then see if you jackpot or flunk out. Sometimes you just had to jump in._

"Alright, here's the deal; Contra and I will go down there and speak to the assholes. If we look like we're in trouble, blow out their brains," explained Wreythe as he took his rifle from Contra and handed it to Rain. The young soldier's eyes opened as if surprised before she feigned calm.

"You want me to use your gun? At this range?"

"Of course, it isn't like we're going to be four miles away or anything."

Wreythe could see the panic in Rain's eyes. While he was sure as hell that the NCR soldier didn't care about either one of them personally, failing this mission would look bad to her superiors. There was something about her that really appealed to Wreythe; it wasn't just her looks, there was a spark to her. Never had he been taken unawares before, yet she had.

"Come on girl, just take the gun."

Rain's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me girl; either call me by my name or by my rank." But she still took the gun and checked the sights while Wreythe and Contra stood up and ran to the roadside, screaming their heads off.

The caravan guards quickly responded to the stimuli and shouted out to each other, checking their firearms against the approaching duo. The sniper pulled the rifle off his back and crouched, panning the horizon behind Wreythe and Contra while the others moved forward.

When they got within a hundred-and-fifty yards the guards shouted out for the duo to halt and be recognized. Wreythe shouted back that they were on their way to Vegas and a radscorpion was chasing them. Gesturing them forward, the guards swept the land thoroughly and indeed found a radscorpion behind a pair of craggy rocks. It was amazing what a vial of female-radscorpion pheromones could do on a blistering hot day.

Upon closer inspection, Wreythe was rather glad he didn't attempt to just kill the lot of them. Each was wearing a suit of high-grade steel-reinforced combat armor, its polymer and ceramic construction offering high levels of protection to the user, and if that wasn't enough at their belt was a folded-up SUB-2000. All four guards now had their firearms trained on Wreythe and Contra, trigger-fingers itching to just mow that the travelers and take everything they have, which didn't look like much.

"We're from the Followers of the Apocalypse, please, we're in dire need of aid. Bandits have stolen our supplies and that radscorpion has been hounding us for the past two hours. If we could just travel with you to Vegas, even part of the way I'd be grateful."

Followers of the Apocalypse didn't usually wear long robes such as this; they were a secular cult rather than a religious one, so practical outfits depending on their work was usually worn. Wreythe simply hoped that none of these guards had ever met any other Followers. It wasn't his idea to say they were Followers, but it was the most plausible plan that the three of them could think up.

The sniper, who turned out to be the leader, had an angry expression on his pock-marked face. "We're not fucking heading to New Vegas. What're you carrying?"

Wreythe pulled out the pockets of his robe and revealed they were empty, but Contra's yielded a small red ruby. The leader snatched the ruby out of his hand peered at it, holding it high against the sky. He scratched his rough beard and peered at the travelers thoughtfully. "Back east, men of the cloth usually give back to the community, not take trinkets such as these."

Wreythe's mind raced quickly, shooting off several possible explanations before choosing a likely one. "Well, not everyone takes regular currency, do they? The NCR have their own gold-backed notes which most people are happy to trade with, the old Legions had their gold and silver coins, you've got the majority of people using bottle caps again but we've found that the one thing that guarantees you of the right to purchase is the real deal itself. Take that ruby, but could you please escort us to Primm?"

"What's stopping us from killing you and taking the ruby?"

"Because then we won't hand over another ruby of equal size that we have kept in Primm. Escort us and you get the other ruby."

Wreythe once more marveled at the way greed tugged at the heartstrings of the common man. The caravan leader agreed and soon the two were walking with the Brahmin, both Wreythe and Contra telling the guards the most fictitious stories they could think of. In between stories of giant man-eating snakes and frogs that could swallow you whole, Wreythe questioned and prodded at the guards carefully. One of them, Lucas, was an oddly pious man and desperately wanted to be on God's good side. He was a tall man and very lean, and with his over-sized glasses he looked almost comical. Lucas had joined the Dear Johns as a means to help out his struggling family, but now he seemed more than a little interested in the Followers of the Apocalypse. Wreythe, knowing very little of the Follower's recruitment methods promised Lucas he would contact his superiors for him.

"We'll be staying in Bonnie Springs so send a letter down when you get confirmation," Lucas told Wreythe as they turned right onto highway leading up to Primm and Vegas beyond it. "I'll be staying in the Oakfield Hotel with the others-"

Movement alerted Wreythe and he ignored whatever else Lucas had to stay. Wreythe dropped his hand to his thigh before remembering that Almost out of his line of sight to the left was Rain, less than two-hundred yards away. For someone not trained in stealth, she was taking a real risk but had many broken down cars and trucks to duck behind. Wreythe made no indication of seeing her and put both hands to his head and kneaded his temples as if fighting off a headache.

"Something wrong?" The leader turned around and stopped walking upon hearing Lucas' loud question and watched Wreythe.

"I sometimes get these really bad headaches," Wreythe explained, "Rubbing your temples is an easy way of massaging the blood vessels."

"I met a man once who would do the same thing. Turned out he had a tumor in his brain," the leader said, turning away. "He died, but not from the cancer." He jogged to catch up to the other guards, leaving Lucas with the duo and the Brahmin.

They were barely five minutes from Primm when the leader whirled around, his SUB-2000 unfolded and pointing straight as Wreythe's head while the other guards pulled their own firearms on Contra. Lucas looked confused for a moment, but a barked order from the leader made him take out his own handgun and aimed it at Contra, who was smiling idiotically and darting his eyes at Wreythe and the guns trained on them. Nothing came between the disguised spies and the four caravan guards, surrounded in a ring of piled-up cars.

"It's been fun, but the game is now over boys. Lucas, remove the big guy's robe."

Lucas obeyed, and ripped a hole in the robe. Pulling it down, he revealed a set of dark leather armor and Contra's M16 strapped to his chest. Lucas looked back to the leader, who simply swung his carbine and fired almost-point blank at Contra.

Everything slowed down at that point; Contra fell, blood spraying from his chest while another shot rang out and tore a chunk out of Lucas' head. The three remaining guards shouted in anger and turned their sights to Wreythe, but he had already unclipped a grenade from underneath his robe and thrown it over his shoulder while jumping into a broken-down car. The resulting explosion rocked the car onto two wheels before it fell again, Wreythe's head smacking into the roof hard. His ears were ringing and head felt like it would burst, but Wreythe took out the 1911 he had kept under the robe and lay still, waiting for the slightest noise. A Brahmin was groaning in pain, but Wreythe heard the distinct sound of metal briefly tapping against metal.

Carefully edging out of the passenger seat of the car, Wreythe crouched and waited.

Another two shots rang out, and Wreythe heard a body fall to the floor. Sliding towards the front of the car, Wreythe peered around and saw Lucas' corpse, his head looking like a cracked egg. Shrapnel had bit into the already dead man's body. Beyond him, Wreythe saw a disembodied leg lying on a car bonnet, the flies already beginning to settle. Standing up, Wreythe took a few tentative steps into the bloodied and burnt clearing, his handgun ready to fire at the slightest movement. As he came closer to the spot where the caravan guards at stood, he found the missing member. The leader had unslung his sniper rifle and had laid down his carbine, using a dead guard's corpse as cover, but that was as far as he had gotten. His rifle had been hit, the broken metal tearing into his face and eyes. The leader was lying down, mewling and tearing at his bloodied face. A large chunk of metal from the scope had lodged itself in his throat, so Wreythe took his knife and finished the job cleanly.

Standing up, Wreythe walked back and found Rain standing over Contra, desperately ripping bandages from a small pouch she had carried on her belt. Kneeling down, Wreythe saw the oozing wound in his side, and some shrapnel from the grenade had lodged itself into his knee.

"We've got to get him to a doctor," Rain said, her cool demeanor vanishing with every second. "He'd going to die!"

"There's no doctors close by as far as I can remember. Primm is more a tourist trap; they send all their wounded and sick up to Goodsprings."

Rain unclipped a map from her belt and looked at it carefully while Wreythe tied a tourniquet and wrapped Contra's bleeding chest, who moaned as he did so, but seemed to be more-or-less unconscious. Goodsprings wasn't too far away, but there was no way Contra could walk; they would have to carry him the whole way. Wreythe had been to Goodsprings once before while hunting down a rumor, and had found the town rather pleasant. The doctor there at the time wasn't even a properly trained professional, just a combat medic from the NCR who had retired and settled down. Rain put away her map and bit her bottom lip while Wreythe picked up Contra and threw him over his shoulder.

"Let's get going."

"What about the caravan? Did you get the shipping manifest?"

Wreythe grinned. "I got something alright, they were heading to Bonnie Springs."


	4. Chapter 4: Goodsprings

Author's Notes:  
Enjoy mates  
Any feedback would be appreciated, any questions too. I'll be answering questions on a youtube video soon that i'll post the link to on my profile page.

* * *

Contra woke up dazed, his eyes fluttering a few times before he finally. He pushed his arms down, trying to lift himself up, but a strong hand pushed him down. His vision swam and a fleet of words assaulted his sensitive ears, but a wave of pain made him squirm; his knee was blazing hot like a dozen needles were pushing into him while his chest itched like hell. He tried to push away the hand to scratch the itch, but a stern voice scolded him. "Yes, your awake, now keeps your hands down or I'll strap 'em down."

Contra exhales and tried pushing himself up, but a dark blur filled his vision and held his arms down. His eyes focusing, Contra recognized Wreythe standing over him.

"How are his eyes? Can he see you properly?" A tired voice asked Wreythe, who looked carefully into Contra's eyes and moved a finger back and forth, watching him follow its motion. "Yeah Doc, he's fine." Contra tried to move again, but this time Wreythe took him by his right elbow and guided him into a sitting position. Looking around, Contra realized he was in an old wooden home. Various chairs and tables filled the room and medical equipment cluttered each bench top. A bloody scalpel lay on a portable stretcher opposite his bed while a Vit-o-matic Vigor Tester stood proudly between the only two doors in the room.

An old man sat on a stool by the stretcher, wearing a pair of overalls and a red scarf tied around his neck. "Just relax a second, get your bearings. It's not everyday a man wakes up from a wound like that." The old man reached across and prodded the itchy spot in Contra's side, causing him to wince.

"How long have I bin 'ere, man?"

"We reached Goodsprings in time, Rain managed to get an escort from an NCR camp outside Primm to help us out. How are you feelin', your knee was pretty shot up. The doc had to stick some metal plate in your knee; we had to salvage a piece of metal big enough from the stop sign outside of town."

Looking around the room, Contra realized there was another patient in the room. Lying on a bed further down in the room was another figure breathing softly, the darkness keeping out any prying eyes from spying on him or her.

"Who's dat?"

"A robot found that unlucky devil lying in the Goodsprings Graveyard, brought the body back here. Turned out there was a bullet lodged in the skull, and believe it or not the so-called corpse wasn't actually dead, so I'm just letting the traveler lay here for now."

Contra tried to stand, but the Doc rushed forwards and held him down, telling him to just rest up a bit. Wreythe stood up and picked up his Remington, pulling out the scope from one of his many pockets and clipped on the scope. Picking up a backpack, Wreythe hoisted it onto his back and flipped down his sunglasses.

"Where'd dat bitch go off to?" Contra asked, realizing he couldn't here anyone else in the house.

Wreythe stepped forward, and then plowed a fist right into Contra's right shoulder, the audible thud echoing as Contra fell back onto the bed again. "She fucking helped you, you ungrateful bastard. If she didn't have the authorization from the 'Bitch-Queen', than we wouldn't have had help getting here in time. We were almost jumped by some gangers on the way here, and now you're sitting there with your ugly head rolling around bad-mouthing her like its nothing."

Contra looked stricken for a second, but reset his features into his regular dumb grin, rubbing his shoulder. "So den where's she den?"

"Hi there!"  
The robot had been following Rain for a few minutes now, trundling after her as she strode through the small town's dirt streets on its single wheel. At first she marveled at how such a robust machine could keep its balance; its flailing arms attempting to act as a balancing pole, but now she just found it dead annoying. She couldn't stand looking at the screen in its central body, the image of a grinning cowboy obnoxiously lifting its hat to her.

"Please stop, I'd like to just say hi!" The robot said enthusiastically, one of its pincer hands seizing her by her the dark cloak she had bought from the town's general store. "Isn't it a lovely morning?" But Rain just swore incoherently and stopped, taking her cloak in both hands, trying to tug it out of the robot's grasp. "Now now, please, you'll hurt my feelings!"

"You're a damn 'bot! Leave me alone!"

"Please don't be angry, I just have a few questions to ask you! Let's get a drink at the saloon!" The robot picked up Rain in both pincers gently and held her as it happily slid down the dirt road, moving into a saloon marked 'The Prospector Saloon'.

The saloon was dark and grimy, the thick stench of strong drink and throw up entered Rain's nostrils, but the robot just swung past an old bitch and its puppies and nestled itself between the bar and a booth, knocking over a cheap bottle of whiskey in the process. "Why sorry Mister Smiles, I'm just so darned excited; I've made a new friend!"

Mister Smiles, an elderly man with a scowl for a smile and deep unforgiving eyes shot a glare at Rain before returning to cleaning the same dirty glass with the same dirty rag. A few men from the town sparsely occupied the various booths and bar stools, but no one bothered to turn around and see what the fuss was about. The robot ordered a glass of Flamin' Hell Whiskey for Rain while it abstained from drinking anything itself. "Spoils my sunny disposition you see!" The robot explained, before asking if Rain would mind joining it for a game of pool. Rain fumed, but agreed and followed the eager robot into the other room. A pregnant woman was sitting by the jukebox, and Victor greeted Missus Smiles before returning his attention to Rain, Picking up a pool cue, Rain set up the balls and broke, while the robot gingerly held a cue and clumsily tore a hole into the fabric, the face on its central unit looking glum while saying "Never was my strong point."

"What do you want?"

The robot span. "Why, first we must introduce ourselves! The name's Victor, but you can call me Vic."

"Rain Munroe of the NCR Army, what do you want?"

Victor's face changed, the cowboy now grinning again. "Well, I know what you want; you want to know how to get to Bonnie Springs. I was listening at the Doc's window," he explained as Rain grew cross. "But what I want is on the way there, it'll be so easy!"

"What is it, Vic?" Rain's patience was running extremely low; she hated robots and all mechanical things that meant to act as humans did.

"Well flip my hot cakes and call me Suzie, won't you please calm down! All I meant was if you could check if there's anyone hangin' round that ol' graveyard on that hill. I'll be down here, but if you see anyone up there than just flash ol' Vic with a torch or something. Could you do that for me?"

"Are you out of your goddamned mind? Why the hell should we climb that fucking hill right in the middle of coyote country or whatever the fuck it is that inhabits this god-forsaken desert!" Rain had finally snapped, and had butted the end of the pool cue into Victor's tough armored body. "Go check out your own damned graveyard!"

Victor's face suddenly turned miserable before he spoke quietly.

"It's the Legion."

Rain hesitated, than grew even angrier. "The Legion's gone, Caesar's dead!"

"No he isn't. The cunning lil' devil wasn't at home when his big palace celebrated the Fourth of July. Only his western Legion bolted when they heard the news and scattered like a rat running from a big cat. I hear back east they still are thrivin', not sure where though."

"That's impossible, the NCR would know for sure! We've got spies, scouts, assassins…" But Rain knew that the NCR wasn't infallible. Rangers had switched sides before; they could have done so again. The trouble with the wasteland was that no one bothered mapping or exploring the more 'uninhabitable' regions; it would be fairly easy for Caesar to hide an army far beyond the NCR's watchful eyes. But Victor wasn't finished.

"Good Mister Smiles said he saw some 'slimy critter' in his own words skulking aroun' up there, but he's an old man. The NCR are here for us, aren't they?"

"But why would the Legion have a spy up on that hill?"

"The flying behemoth. A fully-functioning plane shot past the Mojave Desert a few days ago, and while we at New Vegas have no intention of claiming it or its wreckage, the Legion could say otherwise." Victor seemed be far more serious and refined then he was before, his words no longer containing any of that 'Old Western' speech. It wasn't a far stretch for one to believe that Victor was being remotely manipulated, and judging by his words it was the illusive Mr. House that was doing so.

"We don't care whether the NCR or Legion recovers and/or repairs that derelict, but we don't want either side moving more troops in the Mojave. While the NCR have a minimal presence in the Strip; courtesy of Mr. House's rules, the Legion won't be back for decades, unless they get hold of that plane."

Rain thought desperately. On the one hand she wanted to run back to Shady Sands and report to her superior that the Legion had returned, but on the other hand it could just be a jittery saloon operator and a malfunctioning robot. The NCR were ecstatic when Caesar's Palace was blown up, but now to discover the owner may have not been there…

"Leave him, we'll go together, he'll just slow us down," argued Rain, gesturing towards the sleeping Contra. "We'd have to take bloody baby steps for him to keep up, leave him. In a few days he can leave back west and inform the NCR of what's going on with the Legion."

"Bullshit, if the Legion is involved with the Dear Johns then we need him, he'd be able to pretend to return to the Legion and the NCR would receive a spy."

Rain and Wreythe had been arguing for hours since the grey-eyed young lady had returned from her talk with Victor the Enthusiastic Ass, as Rain indentified him with her personal moniker. At first Wreythe was interested in just heading out by himself and finishing the job properly, but it wasn't difficult for Rain to point out that an entire fledging community of towns and cities were relying on the two of them. The Doc had left them alone, grumbling about young kids and their hormones, and now their shouting risked waking up Contra.

"We can't leave right now anyways, even if we go up to the graveyard tonight there's no guarantee that he'll be there. I'll need at least three days before I can pinpoint the exact position and physical appearance of the spy; if there is one."

"You refuse to leave him, don't you?"

Wreythe sighed. He wasn't that much older than Rain but the years of hardship seemed to pile on him as he sank into the uncomfortable wooden chair. Rain's opinion of Wreythe had changed since coming to Goodsprings. A selfish man, which is what she thought of Wreythe before, would have just jumped ship and left Rain and the wounded Contra. A selfish man wouldn't have offered to leave under the pretense of finding and killing Caesar. He was loyal, she decided, but she wanted to know more.

"Where do you come from, Mister Dyson Wreythe?" Rain asked, jumping onto an empty bench top and crossing her legs. She had changed into a pale red pre-war dress that reached her knees, the back strapless and bare like her feet. She had brushed her reddish-brown hair out and tied it back into a ponytail.

"Long answer," Wreythe said, shaking his head. "I'm just a traveler from the east looking for some answers."

"Answers?"

Wreythe leaned back in the chair and gazed at the beauty seated before him. "You think the NCR is great, don't you? I was in Shady Sands for less than a few minutes and I already knew I didn't like how things were done. Discrimination, bribery, Blackmail and I'm pretty sure I saw a body lying just outside the city as we left. A bum asked me for some money before a guard beat the living shit out of him, while a child feasted on the dead flesh of another child just around the bend. Tandi could do a lot to stop it but instead it seems she's focused on expanding her borders."

"What to do you mean?" Rain wasn't blind to the filthy acts going on inside the NCR's territory, but what made Wreythe so sure they were expanding more?

"Primm. That patrol wasn't just guarding the route from bandits; they were essentially blockading the town. The NCR is building the foundation in which their invasion of the Mojave will take place. Who controls Hoover Dam? In less than a decade it'll be the NCR, the rate their moving they'll own everything from here to Washington in just a few years time, while more and more people will fall beneath the poverty line as the NCR greedily sucks at every living thing."

Rain didn't answer. She couldn't answer. This man who had never set foot in Shady Sands before a few days ago had just predicted a possible future of the NCR, and Rain Munroe couldn't help but agree. Luckily, Wreythe saw how uncomfortable she was with that notion and changed the subject. "How 'bout you, you came out from one of the Spheres?"  
It had always amused Wreythe to no end to discover people still lived in those giant Biospheres on the northern shores of Africa. The world governments had all invested in saving people in case a nuclear war occurred, and the idea to evacuate millions of people to live in these shelters had proved to be the right idea.

"Yes, but my parents took me across the Great Ocean when I was very young. We were cold and hungry, but the NCR had welcomed us with open-arms."

Wreythe nodded, and looked at her pointedly. "Maybe your opinions about the way the NCR does things will change a bit over this journey, maybe we can pop into Vegas before we go back west?"

"That might be nice; I've never been there before." Rain had never been allowed leave to visit the Entertainment Capital of the World, but this provided her with an opportunity few were given. Wreythe smiled and patted her shoulder before claiming he wanted to study that hill where the graveyard was located. His opinion of her was already starting to change.


	5. Chapter 5: The Cemetery

Author's Notes:

Hey all you cool cats, here's the next chapter, fresh off the press. I'm really sorry that its so long, as you know i've been trying to keep chapters of Vision relatively short compared to my other works, but this chapter was a big deal and I couldn't cut it in two.  
So enjoy, sorry about any spelling or grammer mistakes, and any feedback would be appreciated.

* * *

A cool wind swept the rocky hills where the town of Goodsprings sat, the townsfolk resting comfortably after a long day of farming. The Prospector Saloon alone lay open, the bright lights and the sound of music from ages gone inviting many a weary traveler to its dark bosom. Goodsprings had no value as a town, and as such invited the ire of no conventional raiders or marauding armies, but the town's fresh source of water encouraged many to come and take a break from their journeys. Few ever lingered within the town's boundaries, nor were anyone ever encouraged to stay; the settlers of Goodsprings knew that as long as outsiders stayed away then their problems wouldn't come calling. The townsfolk would never consciously remove anyone from the town, but a feeling of uneasiness would descend upon the town until the townsfolk would decide whether or not to accept a new member of their community. On this very night, the town's protector hummed his way as it drove down past the Prospector, its voice-box mimicking the light baritone crooning of Frank Sinatra.

_I'll be around,  
No matter how  
You treat me now  
I'll be around from now on._

_Your latest love  
Can never-_

Victor paused for a moment, and turned towards the hill on which sat Goodsprings Cemetery. Victor watched the cemetery with what it hoped human anger would feel like, but Victor knew it was probably just several transistors on its motherboard popping and fizzling. A glint caught itself in Victor's optics, booming in size as the telescopic lens zoomed in as quickly as they could. Pressing down onto several buttons on its arm, Victor's recognition chip nearly fizzled out as the image of two men sitting against a gravestone filled the lens. Victor's uplink to the main computer in New Vegas worked overtime, cross-checking hundreds of images within seconds. A match pulled up, and Victor felt the presence of the Maker.

_Victor, are all your vitals checking out fine? I have monitored the cross-check you requested of my database. My monitor puts you at 35.832398,-115.433182 and the subject of these images to the north-east._

"How may I serve you?"

_The man sitting with the pair of binoculars trained on the town is indeed a member of Caesar's Legion. The man on the right is different however; my database tells me he is a Chairman from the Tops. Strange place for such a man to be, don't you agree?_

"Your will shall be done, Maker. I shall inform Subject W11-2X7 to capture rather than kill."

Victor felt the link being terminated and looked around. One of the patrons sitting outside of the Prospector Saloon tilted his head as he watched the robot turn in a full circle and speed towards the Doc's home.

* * *

"Hit the thermal, hit the thermal," urged Rain as Wreythe climbed very slowly, instinctively knowing what rocks would tug loose and which would support him without complaint. He slowly reached up and flicked a switch on the beat-up pair of fusion goggles he wore as he turned to his right. Wreythe had been climbing a different hill close to Goodsprings and the cemetery, but unfortunately the townsfolk had neglected to mention that it wasn't as much as a hill as a rocky bluff, so Wreythe had no choice but to climb up the face of the peak and hope no one would notice.

Glancing roughly where he thought the cemetery was, Wreythe was surprised to see that even half-way up the bluff, he was already on the same elevation as the hill. Holding himself to the rocky face with one hand, Wreythe calmly pressed a finger to the side of the goggles and spoke. "Girl, I'm in the middle of something right now, these goggles aren't worth shit."

"Just take a look, on the closest side to Goodsprings!"

Wreythe could feel his left foot slipping, so he ignored Rain's persistent chatter, shut the thermal-vision off and continued to climb up, the almost-invisible moon making each yard harder than the last. At last he had reached the summit a few minutes later and breathed deeply, relishing the passing of danger. Wreythe didn't exactly climb much in the dark, let alone without the right equipment. Looking over the edge, e gazed onto the sleeping town of Goodsprings. While he couldn't see her clearly, he knew that the black speck leaning against the saloon was Rain, watching from her safe and comfortable position with no danger to her in any way. He laid himself flat on the cool rocky surface, ignoring the outcropping of rock that dug into his flesh. Flipping his goggles up and pulling out his favorite pair of binoculars, Wreythe looked at the cemetery.

"Do you see them now?"

"Sure," replied Wreythe. Sitting against a tombstone was a pair of men, one garbed in what appeared to be old American Football gear painted brown and red while the other wore a monochromatic-striped business suit. The legionnaire was watching the town with his own set of binoculars, occasionally putting them down to scribble on a notepad, while the man beside him chattered quietly, pointing every now and then to the north and east. Wreythe relayed this back to Rain, who told him to keep watching. That got him a bit annoyed. He's walked the breadth of this land and seen things that would make her stomach crawl and her eyes fall out, but here's a girl, barely out of her parent's grasp and she's ordering him about? If he'd had it his way, he wouldn't even be on this damn mountain right now, he would have just gone straight to the cemetery and cut out the hearts of whoever was hiding there.

Movement down in Goodsprings caught Wreythe's eyes. A plume of dust was rising from the roads, probably caused by that robot guard patrolling the place. Wreythe hadn't yet met the securitrons yet. It wasn't because Wreythe hated robots or that the robot hadn't passed him yet; rather it was because of a little challenge Rain had set. "There's no bloody way you can escape him!" She had said on their fourth night in Goodsprings. "He'll just bloody stop you and shuttle you off to the saloon to have a drink and play pool."

So of course Wreythe boasted and bet Rain that he could dodge the enthusiastic robot without a hitch, and proceeded to escape every time Victor came close to him, whether it was in the saloon or on the outskirts of town. Rain had evidently told Victor about her friends at one point, for Victor had begun to purposely patrol the area around Rain, hoping that he'd find the elusive guest. Camping out on the Doc's roof and not making a sound was worth it just to see Rain's face once they were done here and he won the bet.

He watched as Victor pulled a tight turn after reaching the Doc's house, then zoomed straight back down the street towards the Prospector. He reached the back of the building, and Wreythe's heart sank as he watched Rain talk to him, the towering securitrons making her seem like a child in comparison. Wreythe watched in horror as Rain handed something small to the robot which then held it in both pincers.

"Hi there!"

The voice crackled over the receiver, and Wreythe had to stifle a groan. "Hey," he answered weakly, knowing that Rain was probably pleased as punch by now.

"Well shatter my knee-caps and call me a doctor, how you doin'? I'm Victor, but you can call me Vic." Wreythe grinded his teeth and grunted back a reply, but the securitrons didn't seem to mind.

"Well now, fancy meetin' your friend out this late, you lovebirds helpin' out Old Vic with his problem?" Victor asked slyly, but Wreythe merely grunted again, hoping that the robots booming voice wouldn't be heard all the way to the cemetery. "Well you don't really have to worry about anything anymore, I caught the spy on camera," continued Victor. "I always wanted to learn how to become a top counter-intelligence operator, but my ma' told me I was destined for the blazing sun and jingling spurs on my boots."

"He wanted to be seen," rebuked Wreythe.

A sudden change in Victor's voice made Wreythe pay attention to the irritating pest. "Are you sure of this? There's no way of them knowing that I was interested in some little rumor hovering around so far out of my city. Do you recognize the man with the legionnaire?"

Wreythe thought about it for a few moments. "He looks like one of the Chairmen from the Tops. There was a man working there with dark hair and a goatee, this looks like him. Ritchie was his name."

A whirring sound answered Wreythe before Victor's calm and focuses voice spoke again. "I've crossed the image, that's the man from the Tops alright. Says here that he used to be part of some weapon smuggling ring running out of Phoenix until he was scouted out. Came to New Vegas and was captured on film for the first time three and a quarter years ago."

Phoenix was one of the regions that Caesar had established his control over almost thirty years ago, and was a prime recruiting area. The thought occurred to Wreythe that it could have been possible that Ritchie had been part of the Dear Johns, but it didn't sound right. If he was part of the Johns, then he would have had to have been one of their earliest employees in order to take the time to infiltrate New Vegas for them, the Johns only having been started late 2207.

"A spy for the Dear Johns?"

But Victor/House brushed aside Wreythe's suggestion. "They've never had anything to do with my city; the competition would be too steep. They could be arming the Fiends to the west and maybe the Oakenists down near Searchlight, but that's not my business. No, this man is different. Can you capture him?"

"And what will you do for me?"

"I won't make Victor pulverize your pretty little girlfriend, that's what I will do. I didn't sweat blood and engine oil to build this robot army and a heavenly paradise of a city just for it to be besieged upon by its former master. I'm infinitely greater than anything Caesar could have hoped to have been, and regardless of whether he is dead or not, I need that man. A spy within my city is completely unacceptable."

Wreythe nodded but didn't say anything. Sliding his Remington off his back, Wreythe attached the bipod to the barrel of the rifle and calculated the angle of the shot. He was almost forty yards above the graveyard, perhaps more, and almost six-hundred yards away. The angle wasn't too bad; Wreythe only had to raise himself slightly higher off the floor to see the pair of spies. It was natural for a megalomaniac like House to pull a stunt like this, using blackmail and threats to keep people obeying his every command. Wreythe contemplated firing at Victor instead, but there was no way the spies hadn't seen Victor talking to a girl near the saloon. Even if he did try firing at Victor, even without a silencer the shot would never punch through Victor's titanium-plated hull at this range, so instead he watched the spies and concentrated.

But he couldn't get Rain's face out of his head; he imagined the terror in her eyes as she struggled to get free of Victor's metal pincers, her ponytail dissolving as her hair flew this way and that, whipping across her face.

Wreythe shook his head. He wasn't sure where that had come from but he was not going to give into his new-found desperation to shoot Victor, he had a job to do. Both men were easy targets; propped up against the tombstone like that offered Wreythe two equally large targets with neither offering an protection that could likely stop Wreythe's shot if he took it. There was, however, the problem of a runner. If Wreythe shot either man, the other would jump up and make a run for it.  
The legionary was obviously the more important target to Wreythe; he would hold the answers to whether Caesar was truly dead or not, or at least point Wreythe in the right direction, but he was armored. Sure, his armor was basically trash and could barely withstand small arms such as pistols, but Wreythe knew that there was always the possibility of luck manifesting itself in the form of a misaligned shot or a glancing blow off the football helmet. There was another advantage in taking down the legionary first. Wreythe had seen a plane fly overhead on his way to Los Angeles when he had traveled by the Interstate Route 40; an old bi-plane that had turned to the south and flown away. Very few people had knowledge of how the ancient vehicles of the skies worked, and Wreythe wasn't about to pass up the chance to find out. While there was a very slim chance at finding this man on his own, it would be impossible if the Legion was looking for the pilot too. One of the few airports left standing after the Great War was Ontario International, and was roughly in the direction the plane had flown. Unfortunately, Wreythe knew that there was just as likely a chance that the NCR's scouts had seen the plane, but at least Wreythe knew where the New California Republic was based.

Ritchie was the far easier target; the bullet would pass right through his clothing and bite into his flesh, so a leg wound would be appropriate in this situation but Wreythe didn't want the legionary running away. He remembered Ritchie from his last visit to Vegas, when the elitist had tried refusing the vagabond entry into the Tops, but a few whispered words into his ear by one of the receptionists made him change his mind. Ritchie had let him pass, but only after he had forced Wreythe to be strip-searched by one of the more larger and aggressive of Ritchie's bodyguards.

Flicking the safety off, Wreythe aimed carefully at the legionary's exposed knee cap. "Victor, I'm going to take the first shot, but I'm not sure I'll be able to hit the other target while they're on the run at this distance. Let Rain go so she can position herself on the other side of the graveyard. If House is so worried that we'll just kill the Chairman and spoil his interrogation, then go to the Doc's house where the third member of our party is recuperating."

Victor released Rain then zoomed away, heading towards the Doc's home while Rain made her way behind a nearby home, trying to avoid the legionnaire's watchful gaze. Wreythe knew that she would have to pick her way past rubble and drop on her belly in order to escape the town without notice, but it seemed neither the legionnaire nor the Chairman were in the rush. He waited for almost twenty minutes before a breathless Rain gave him the go-ahead.

"Any problems?"

"I think there's a coyote hunting me, I saw it a few minutes ago and I'm pretty sure it saw me." Rain had not been a soldier for too long before she had arrested Wreythe, her rank barely higher than the standard trooper's. She had yet to make her first kill; instead she had been promoted after bravely stopping a suicide bomber after he had claimed that God had spoken to him and ordered him to destroy the kindergarten in Shady Sands.

"You took Contra's knife when we brought him to see the Doc, didn't you? Fourteen-inches of cold steel will persuade the fucking beast to find an easier meal. When I take the shot, the Chairman will make a run, most likely zigzagging through the graveyard until he reaches the northern terrace. It's a steep hill, one that you wouldn't want to run down, so take out one of his legs. Just don't aim too high, better you scare him and he runs back up into the graveyard thinking we have him surrounded rather than him lying on the ground dead."

Rain told Wreythe to wait at least one minute before taking the shot, so he double-checked his sights and lovingly caressed the stock as he waited. "Go for it."

Finally, Wreythe looked through the lens again and focused on the legionnaire's knee. It wasn't a too difficult shot, the elevation giving Wreythe the much needed boost in order to get a clear shot; the bipod gripped the rocky surface perfectly.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out; Wreythe squeezed the trigger.

A tremendous bang swept over the sleeping town, provoking screams and shouts from those rudely awakened, but the bullet had hit its mark. Wreythe could see the legionnaire lying on the ground, desperately holding his bleeding knee; shards of bone piercing the skin where the knee-cap had been disemboweled. Sure enough, the Chairman had immediately gotten up and pelted north, hoping that the sniper would take too long to fire a decent shot. He had the right idea, and Wreythe watched as he vaulted the northern wooden fence overlooking the lip of the hill. Wreythe waited, and sure enough he could distantly hear what he supposed was Rain taking a shot at the slow Chairman.

Then a further three shots rang out across from Rain's position. These weren't the semi-automatic rounds fired by Rain's pistol, but a burst from an assault rifle. Wreythe began to panic, he had been a fool! While the Legion never worried too much about supporting their scouts and explorers, of course this Chairman must have his bodyguard close by.  
Another volley of fire was met by singular rounds from Rain. It didn't add up right.

"Rain, what's going on?"

Rain didn't answer at first, but a lull in the firefight allowed Rain to answer, her voice quavering with fear. "They had friends hiding in a broken-down trailer where-" another round of fire caused Rain to stop speaking and return fire. Wreythe struggled to see over the northern edge of the graveyard, but it was too far and too dark. Getting down from this peak would take too long with all his gear.

Dropping his rifle, Wreythe ran along the precipice, knowing that the peak had a north-westerly natural ramp that would lead back down to the ground. The rifle would have been too heavy and would have slowed him down, so Wreythe made a mental note to come back later to retrieve it.

Sure enough, he soon began to descend and flipped off his long coat, his muscles warming up in the cool night air. This is how he had first started out, a runner, and his leg muscles felt elated that he could once more free them from the burden of cautious walking. Dressed now only in a half-scavenged combat armor; the polymer and ceramic-armored suit missing its shoulder pads and thigh plates, Wreythe nearly tripped from shock when a blast rocketed out, the now-awake townsfolk screaming again. Wreythe could see a crater in the side of the mountain opposite the Goodsprings Cemetery, and surmised that the firer of the weapon must be very inept indeed. Wreythe had reached the bottom of the hill, and prepared himself for the up-coming fight by flipping out the SUB-2000 he had hooked to his belt.

"They aren't Chairmen."

Rain's voice once-more crackled over the comm., but immediately the channel was broken as another rocket rang out, this one far more accurate than the first. Wreythe felt his knees almost give way from the vibrations running through the hill, but he kept running. Ignoring the summit, Wreythe ran along the hillside until he finally saw them.

* * *

A small group of warriors wearing dark blue jeans and black leather vests stood around, three of them equipped with various small-arms and a range of melee weapons including knives and baseball bats while the fourth carried a M72 LAW over his shoulder, laughing his bearded head off. The grinning image of a Mongolian warrior's skull adorned the back of each of their vests. Wreythe had encountered the Great Khans once before, but that was under the guise of friendship, he had gotten along well with several of the more stable warriors.  
Standing a little further down the hill was a pair of men, both dressed in the same way as the men Wreythe and Contra had previously encountered on the road to Primm. These two carried only a handgun in their hands while each had an AK-47 strapped to their backs. None of the men had yet noticed Wreythe, and instead were watching a severely-shot up sedan a little ways down the hill. A large crater had been blown into the ground in front of the car, covering it with dirt and dust, but Wreythe knew that Rain had to be alive. Lying on the floor near the pair of Dear John mercenaries lay Ritchie; his leg looking like a crazy butcher had tried amputating it with a blunt axe. A Great Khan lay dead, a piece of his skull shattered from pistol-shot, while two of the standing warriors sported glancing wounds on their arms and faces.

A pebble fell from the top of the hill and fell past Wreythe, but none of the Khans or the Johns noticed. Looking up, Wreythe was surprised to see the tall boxy figure of Victor on top of the hill, aiming at the group of adversaries with both pincers folded back to expose his 9mm submachine gun-fitted arm and the grenade-launcher attachment of the other.

"Well would you look at that, a good ol' fashioned showdown!" Victor boomed as he drove down the hill at break-neck speed, blasting at the Khans with everything he had. The receivers of the giant securitron's insane assault ducked for cover behind the few rocky outcrops, but Wreythe had a perfect line of sight to them and put them down, one after another. Only after three Khans lay dead did the other Khan make a run for it.

Victor's face monitor exploded in a shower of sparks as one of the Johns fired at him, stopping the menacing giant in his tracks, but both Johns knew the folly of being outflanked and tactically retreated, one stopping to fire back at either Wreythe or Rain's hiding place every ten yards. Wreythe tried to hit one, but the John was already a quarter-mile away and the gun lacked the power or accuracy to make the shot.

Rain ducked out of her hiding place and ran to Wreythe, tears streaming as she sobbed and wrapped her arms around Wreythe, weeping uncontrollably onto his armor. Awkwardly, Wreythe placed both hands around the girl and hugged her, making soft soothing sounds, trying to placate her. "Shhhh, you did a good job girl, shhhh."

But Rain kept crying, falling down before Wreythe could catch her, hugging his legs. It was hard to make out what she tried saying, but Wreythe knew the gist of it. Rain Munroe had never been in a firefight before, especially not one of these proportions. Few could boast having survived an ambush like that, but it had terrified her. The first time you take a life you make a choice; you either are so stricken by the act that you vow never to pick up a weapon again, or you continue doing it out of necessity. There are those who enjoy their work; murdering and butchering where others would have prepared negotiation, and Wreythe was glad to see Rain wouldn't be like that.

Victor was gone, his central processing unit completely demolished from penetrating power of the Dear John's AK-47s, his bulky torso lying flat on the ground while the arms were spread out to his sides.

"I-I'm fine," whimpered Rain. "I'm fine now. Check that man that I…"

Wreythe walked over to the moaning man and knelt down. Looking into the sweating man's eyes, Wreythe pulled an arm back and slammed Ritchie's face with his clenched fist, knocking him out. Wreythe picked up the bastard and slung him over one shoulder, than nodded to Rain that they should go back up. Lying in the graveyard was the legionnaire, his breathing haggard and skin appearing very pale to Wreythe.  
He rushed forward and checked the man, and sure enough found a deep cut in the legionnaire's wrist. He had tried to commit suicide and save himself the torture he knew would have been coming, but had screwed up and cut across rather than down.

Turning to Rain, Wreythe moved close enough to her that she seemed almost freaked out, until she realized he had taken off the first-aid pouches she had carried around on her belt. Pulling out an adjustable tourniquet, Wreythe snapped it onto the legionnaire's arm and pulled it tight, cutting off the blood flow. Next he pulled out a rare vial of antiseptic and a box of matches.

Calmly, paying no heed to the dripping sound of the legionnaire's blood hitting the ground, Wreythe kicked a wooden cross over from a nearby grave and proceeded to rip pieces of wood off it. Starting a fire with the matches, the legionnaire's eyes bulged when he realized what was about to happen, while Rain watched as if hypnotized by the act about to take place, her recent ordeal seemingly forgotten. The legionnaire tried to crawl away, but Wreythe would have none of that. "Sit still," he ordered, scuffing the bastard over the head.

His fire ready, he heated a shard of wood until it glowed red-hot and a fire ignited, but he quickly extinguished the open flame by grounding it into the dirt for a second, preserving the heat. The legionnaire was screaming now, whimpering and begging to be killed instead, but Wreythe asked Rain to shut him up. Ripping a strip of clothe from Ritchie's expensive trousers, Rain gagged the helpless man and held him by both arms. She knew what was coming was brutal and primitive, but she had a mission to uphold and nothing could stop that. Wreythe advanced silently like Death-personified, and pressed the tip of the shard against the legionnaire's wound. Immediately he struggled and kicked, muffled yells of pain turning hoarse quickly as Wreythe refused to relent until the deed was done. Rubbing antiseptic against the flaming red wound, Wreythe hoped death would be staved off just long enough for Wreythe to finish his business with the Dear Johns and take him back with them to Shady Sands. They would have to leave him here in Goodsprings under the care of the Doc and hope he would be alive when they all came back.

Ritchie, on the other hand, was a different story.

It hadn't taken Wreythe very long to squeeze information out of the playboy snake from Vegas, beating someone with a dead man's head would often do the trick, but Rain in turn had spent the new few hours retching into a recently-emptied grave.

"Keep it cool my main man, just groove with it," said Ritchie, attempting to sound as if being beaten with someone's decapitated head wasn't a rare experience. "You cats have some style; I'll give you that one for free. I was here keeping that fink some company while he worked his magic, but he was no big tickle, I tell you. I forked out some bread to some friends of mine, and two new cats joined the bash. The Khans I've known for awhile, but those other two oozed bad news everywhere. Said they came out of Bonnie Springs, and that we can do proper business after this show had taken off."

"What sort of business?" Wreythe asked, staring pointedly to the still glowing embers of the fire he had made.

"Those moldy figs wanted to take me out to lunch! Two-hundred smackas for an assault rifle, I don't care even if it's the bomb, I had to keep it cool. But they did have a smokin' deal with rifles and boomsticks that I couldn't just take five over."

Wreythe thought this over than asked Rain if she could use one of the rusting wheelbarrows from the cemetery to take the legionnaire back down to Goodsprings while he finished talking to Ritchie. Doing as he asked, Rain stared hard at Ritchie with her grey eyes and her reddish-brown hair now free and loose. Nodding to Wreythe, she picked up the Legionnaire with the wheelbarrow and quickly carted him away down to the still-panicking town.

Wreythe, under the other hand, had no interest in talking to the prick sitting near him. He had already admitted to working with the Legion, so of course Wreythe would be paying the Tops a visit soon, and had said he only knew those two Johns because he had been out hiring protection and ended up with the offer for business instead. He was useless to Wreythe, but still a danger to others.

Wreythe corrected that.

The next morning, three travelers left Goodsprings in high spirits; one once-more carrying his favorite hunting rifle and sporting a long dark cloak, another humming a tune as her reddish-brown hair flashed in the morning's sunlight while the last limped along slightly, every now and then barking at the other two to slow down a bit. Lying in a heap in the town centre was the remains of Victor, the greatest protector the town had ever had and lying in the Doc's home was an unconscious legionnaire who needed urgent medical attention and a guard to keep watch over him at all times.

This represented exactly why Goodsprings was glad that these kinds of people didn't stay long.


	6. Chapter 6: O'Laighin

Author's Note:

I'm really nervous about the next two chapters, I didn't get anyone to read them first.  
Actually chapter 6 and 7 are one chapter, I just decided to split them.  
Anyways, enjoy!  
I hope I didn't make any mistakes...

* * *

Before the Great War, Bonnie Springs was a peaceful little community situated to the west of Las Vegas. Relying mainly on its tourism to bring in prophets, the majority of people living there worked at the Bonnie Springs Ranch; a tourist trap that would supposedly give visitors an authentic 'Wild-Western' experience. However, two-hundred years later the Ranch was almost completely gone, having been scavenged for timber for the Khans while a few of the smaller buildings still stood, more or less intact. One of the buildings stood apart from the others, more likely originating as a barn, but over the years it had been built up and re-branded as the Bonnie Springs Grand Hotel.

From the three companions only Contra had been here before, describing Bonnie Springs as being 'da most borin'est place in da world.' According to him, apart from the hotel few of the other buildings were inhabited, including a general store and a Great Khan tent having been erected just outside the town. The Khans took care of Bonnie Springs, understanding that it was the gateway for travelers or soldiers from Vegas to enter the Red Rock Canyons where one of their largest settlements lay. It had been the staging point from where the majority of the Great Khans had migrated east of Vegas, settling down and building the small settlement of Bitter Springs. In recent years more and more of the Great Khans had left their home in the west to join those in the east, leaving Red Rock Canyon with barely a hundred able-bodied men to guard the position, which made Bonnie Springs a pivotal location for the Great Khans. If anyone ever managed take Bonnie Springs than the Great Khans would be more-or-less trapped in Red Rock Canyon without a direct path to Bitter Springs.

Wreythe waved to a pair of Great Khans who were lounging by the side of the road into town, sitting back on rickety beach chairs and smoking. "How's it going?" Wreythe asked.

"Well enough man, what's your business in Bonnie Springs?" The Khans were speaking to Wreythe, but their eyes were glued to Rain's fine figure. Wreythe knew that she cut an impressive figure, but sometimes a woman's body was a dangerous thing, especially those women who regularly kept in shape and whose face could be mistaken for an angel's.

"Visiting old friends. Do you two know if either Stalker or O'Laighin are in town?"

The two Khans looked dumbstruck for a moment, than answered cautiously. "Stalker isn't here, fucker has gone to Vegas for a week, but Olly might be around." Wreythe smiled inwardly as he thought about the lucky turn of events. O'Laighin, or Olly, owed Wreythe a favor after he hacked Olly's tab back in Dustball and erased his debt from the casino over there. The Irish scumbag was sleazy alright, downright mischievous and sly, but he was one of the few men Wreythe could count on these days.

Thanking the Khans and pointedly patting his hip holster when they demanded to strip-search Rain, the three travelers walked past the guard outpost into Bonnie Springs proper. It was as Contra said, the town was a tiny speck of a thing, with just the hotel and general store sticking out with their beaten signs and their painted shingle roofing.  
"What a piece of shit," Wreythe said, carefully stepping over a sleeping bum and making his way to the hotel. "In the east I've been just about to every colonized spot of land, and here in the west I'm trying to do the same, but this place really is just a piece of fucking shit. Fuck, Goodsprings was more exciting than this place; at least they had a fucking graveyard and a schoolhouse, albeit a crumbling one."

"Well, its perfect isn't it?"

Wreythe nodded while Contra looked at Rain curiously. "Da fuck 're yo' talkin' bout? How's dis shithole perfect?"

"Because no one would suspect a weapon smuggling ring operating from this kind of place, would they? Its way too quiet, especially for a town that the Great Khans have control over. No, something's up here. Dyson, who's Olly?"

"Thomas O'Laighin: thief, drug dealer, bounty hunter and all-round asshole. If something is going down in this town, then he'll know for sure." Pushing open the saloon-style doors into the Bonnie Springs Grand Hotel, Wreythe's senses were immediately assailed by a myriad of sights, sounds and smells. The jingling of one-armed bandits accompanied the sight of dozens of people tossing dice onto roulette tables while their skimpily-dressed escorts hung about, cheering and laughing as their partners won. A long bar lined the wall, where almost every barstool was taken, but Wreythe pointed out to three unoccupied spots near the western wall.  
Rain almost fainted from the strong smell of alcohol and vomit hanging in the air about the bar, flinching from the stares of the drunken men drowning their paychecks in pints of beer and spirits. She literally had to force herself to look away from the darkest corner of the impromptu casino as a small group of men shot themselves up with a cocktail of drugs, chemicals and painkillers.

"What exactly about all this doesn't appeal to your 'sophisticated' nature, Contra?" She asked, keeping as close to Wreythe as possible. Contra shot her a glare. "Dis was tiny when I was 'ere last."

"Isn't so small now, order a drink," ordered Wreythe, offering Rain the cleanest seat while he brushed off a small puddle of dried puke from his own. Contra simply stared at the sludge on his own and just shrugged, sitting down. The bartender; a steel-eyed young man with slicked-back hair and a diabolical goatee took their orders and poured out three cheap beers from the tap. "Haven't seen you three 'round these parts before."

"Just passing through to Vegas," answered Wreythe. "Any activity on the road?"

"Nope, things have been pretty dull lately. Too much traffic for any raiders and the Khans are keeping most of the area surrounding area pretty clear. You three look like you can take care of yourselves at any rate," the bartender said, eyeing each of them in turn, but eyeing Rain the longest, naturally. "Any of you want to earn a bit of money?"

Contra nodded enthusiastically while Wreythe and Rain stayed silent, so the young bartender continued. "There's a little competition that goes on here every night, should be starting soon. Head out to the back, you'll see our proud little stadium."

Contra thanked the man and jumped up; ignoring the irritated glare that Rain gave him. Almost flying out on his long legs, Wreythe appropriated Contra's drink for his own.  
"The idiot was just bed-ridden in a doctor's home after getting shot and there he goes. What sort of competition is it?" Asked Rain, sipping at her beer distastefully.

"Hmmm… you could call it a contest actually. Just a little game some of the regulars love watching and participating in. That is, those who still have hands."

Wreythe sighed while Rain stood up and pelted after Contra. Looking around, he watched the various people win and lose at their games of luck and chance, each hoping to make the lucky break that will bring them riches. Normally he would join in himself, but business came first. "Where's Olly?"

"That'll cost you."

Wreythe slammed a pouch of coins onto the bar, loud enough for all those nearby to hear the clink of coins. The bartender opened the pouch carefully and pulled out a silver coin, then looked at Wreythe curiously, with only a hint of anger playing at his eyes. "You worked for Caesar?"

"No, just killed men who did."  
That calmed down the bartender, who hastily scooped up the pile and hid it in a pocket before answering Wreythe's question. "Olly came in about a week ago, loaded to the brim with denarius silver and gold nuggets; he'd struck it big, he'd told me, but I know the bastard, he stole the swag from somewhere. That or he'd pulled off the mother-of-all-assassinations. Speaking of which, you hear about what had happened in the Old Land?"

Wreythe's attention was solely transfixed on the young bartender now. "What's up?"

"Sphere Five and Six were blown up apparently, not a soul escaped. Might have happened around two months ago, its hell coming by news from across the Great Ocean."

"Does anyone know who did it?" At last count, over five years ago, approximately twenty million people still lived in each Sphere on average. The loss of life was simply staggering, never had anything happened like this before. The Spheres were built by the Old World's governments over two-hundred years ago, each a self-sustaining shelter against the horrors of nuclear warfare. Even after the radiation levels had died down, many people chose to stay in the Spheres rather than to adventure outside. Over a hundred years ago the first few Spheres had opened up, many of the inhabitants spreading outwards by either walking or building ships. According to what was now a myth, one such Sphere had pooled all of its resources into building a giant ark, and had sailed west, colonizing America. Although it wasn't so long ago, all the original sailors had died of radiation while their children used up their life-force working hard and making the land as inhabitable as possible for their children.

"Don't know to be honest; my source didn't really stick around long enough to find out anything else. Anyways, check out the back, I saw him head out with a bunch of other punters."

Contra sidestepped as the long, jagged blade curved down where he had been standing only a nanosecond earlier before darting forward, intent on catching his opponent's arm and slicing him neatly, but unfortunately the long-haired maniac of a gambler just grinned even wider and span, jumping and snapping his knife forward again, Contra's knife barely moving in time to parry each strike aside. Voices called out from the sides of the dirt pit where a dozen or so spectators were betting on who would make first blood, but so far Contra and his opponent had disappointed them all, neither gaining the advantage over the other.

Ducking, Contra swept his right leg across and kicked his opponent down to the ground, ignoring the pain in his side as he did so, but the other fighter was much to fast and had already rolled and jumped into a crouching position as Contra swept down with the knife, a dusty shroud enveloping the pit. Standing straight, Contra towered over his opponent who was at least a foot shorter then he, but the smaller man was just as fast. Contra kicked outwards, hoping to catch the smaller man off-guard, but his opponent wasn't fooled, and was ready, stepping backwards out of range. The pit was only a few yards in diameter, but both fighters were seemingly used to fighting in such close quarters.

Sweat snapped off the wild man's long hair as he parried Contra's blade, once, twice then three times before jumping up, kicking the blade aside then thrusting forward. Cold steel almost kissed Contra, but his opponent miscalculated the distance between them.

Contra wasn't even aware of Wreythe as he joined the trembling Rain outside, putting an arm around her to keep her calm, but the young woman was terrified. Blood Sports had been banned in the territories of the New California Republic, and this public and very violent display of raw anger and killing potential was obviously upsetting her. He watched in silence as the two combatants carefully calculated their strikes and ripostes, and was more then just a little impressed when Contra performed a beautiful set of feints, compounding them into a flurry of almost-hits and debatable-nicks, and it seemed to Wreythe like it would never end.

But the fight at last came to a head; Contra lunged out with a fist and took the shorter man by surprise, almost lifting him clean off his feet with a fist to the face, but it was a trick. A shocked silence fell over the crowd as the long-haired fighter lifted the butt of his knife as he pretended to recoil from the blow and flowed with his knife into a stunning smash on Contra's nose. Blood spurted out as Contra fell to his knees, the fight was lost.

The small group of punters cheered as the short man climbed the ladder out of the pit, grinning ear to ear while collecting his winnings, but the moment he saw Wreythe a dark frown upset his face.

"The hell are you doin' 'ere, you double-crossing bastard?"

"Double-crossing bastard? You're a mother-fucking pig-sucking lying piece of sputum!"

"The hell I am! Your mother was a whore who liked gettin' her tits mauled by every blind man from 'ere t' the East!"

The two red-faced men came close to each, until they were less than an arms length away from each other. Rain looked on with fear while the punters had all backed away; not wanting to get caught in any crossfire, but their caution was misplaced. The two men reached out and wrapped one-another in a massive hug. Taking a step back, Wreythe examined his old friend. Thomas Samuel O'Laighin was the gentleman's thief on occasion, sporting the finest disguises and the best gadgets money could buy, but on occasion he could fuel the blood of his ancestors, taking the role of the fiercest warrior a man could face. He was short, but not squat. A lean man with muscles that would suit a boxer far better than a thief, while his long, unruly brown hair would conceal his startling green eyes unless he tied his hair back, as he was now. Wreythe had known him for a few years, and had even worked with him on occasion, but now he needed information.

"Olly, this is Rain Munroe, she's a blanket-catcher. The black guy you fought is Contra, formerly with Caesar's Legion, and now in my employ. We need to know some stuff that only you would be able to find out."

"Thomas O'Laighin, the finest catch on this side of the Great Divide, but you can call me Olly," O'Laighin said, bowing down and kissing Rain's hand tenderly.

"Oh, thanks. What happened to your accent?" Rain asked.

"It only usually comes out when I'm in the middle of beating someone's arse. Perhaps we should all take a short walk, away from prying eyes and listening ears. Come on champ, rarely has anyone given me such good sport." Olly grabbed Contra by the arm, who had been in the process of getting out of pit, and hoisted him out with ease. "Pete the Barman is a good kid, let me just run in and grab the key to the penthouse, I'm sure you three want somewhere comfortable to sleep tonight?"

Rain turned to Wreythe as the Irish scoundrel ran inside, an eyebrow raised. "What a charming man, but I can almost smell the diseases he carries. What's a blanket-catcher?"

"A term we in the mercenary use to refer to agents. I didn't want those gamblers knowing where we are from."

They stood in silence as Contra wiped the sweat and blood from his body and face, until Wreythe couldn't help himself. "Do I smell like disease?"

Rain once more raised an eyebrow. "No… I don't think so," she answered, bemused. "But I would like it if you took a shower tonight. God knows what trekking through the wasteland makes you smell like."

"And you prefer the clean smell of crisp uniformed raw recruits, not a single one having ever to have shot a man or chased a bandit halfway across the desert? Or the sight of a perfectly organized regiment of 'veteran' soldiers, each one of them having stared death in the face, rugged looks and chiseled abs the lot of them?"

Rain slugged Wreythe hard, but surprisingly she didn't take any real offence. It had seemed to Wreythe that she had loosened up a bit since he had first met her. "And how about you? A frequent visitor to the many houses of ill repute that cross the country? How many bastards have you left behind?"

Wreythe grinned, the girl was learning well indeed. "Actually, no, can't say I have ever gone to one, and I plan to keep it that way. Never felt the urge to."

"Uh, change of subject. How'd you learn the things you do?"

Wreythe looked away as O'Laighin came back, key jangling in his hand. "Same way he did. We were soldiers at one point, got tired of it and left."

"That's putting it lightly, that is! Lass, we ran faster than lightning, leaving as little tracks as we could as we left that prison." Olly looked up to the sky, where a multitude of twinkling stars shone through the cloudy night. "I'm going to tell you a little story."


	7. Chapter 7: The Wolves

"There were five of us. Dyson here was the youngest, but he was also the sneakiest son of a bitch you'd ever meet. Ulysses was a freak-show from the south who was obsessed with that damn flag he wore, he was the oldest amongst us and well-traveled, and he'd seen things the rest of us could only dream of seeing. Sirus was a true mother-fucker and was probably the only one of us that actively liked getting pieces of brain splatter on his face, the crazy bastard even ate a fetus he pulled from a pregnant lady when we were trapped in a pillbox for a month while Agate was our own personal femme fatale, a woman of deadly beauty and skill. Together we were part of the Wolf Rangers, a small group of operatives working for the Commonwealth, but we took the first chance we had and escaped, never looking back.

We lost Agate on the way south, several Fox Rangers had been tracking us since we had left and took us by surprise one night in the ruins of Providence. Sirus made a sick joke about the whole thing being Divine Providence, as if God had meant for Agate's brain to exit her skull that night, but we lost the Fox Rangers in the freezing night, their tracks obliterated by the snow. We went south before backtracking back up north and east, hoping to find a raft or something in New Bedford. Well, the bastards had apparently realized what we had done and I took a bullet while we rowed down the shore, but Dyson here fished the bullet out of my arse with just his knife. Well, none of us had any idea where to head to really, we knew there were men coming to kill us, so we just kept rowing. After three days we finally found ourselves at what Sirus said was Norfolk, so we jumped off and took a peek around.

We parted with Sirus there; he took off in the night, heading north-west to Washington DC while Dyson, Ulysses and I headed south-west. We hit the Great Road and didn't stop till we hit Racing Ring. Ulysses had some bad blood down there, so he kept going, but we immediately hit the mercenary trade."

Rain was mesmerized; Wreythe had refused to say anything about his past since they had started to travel together, but here was a chunk of his back-story for her to chew over. "What kind of work did you do for the Commonwealth? The NCR knows about them but it's simply too far and dangerous for any real communication."

Olly opened his mouth to answer but this time Wreythe himself spoke. "We were the assassins, guards, specialists and spies of the Commonwealth, but we had left the first chance we got. We were practically slaves, held captive by army until we were needed, and even then collars were placed around our necks that would explode if we tried to run away or tamper with them. We were sent to do the Commonwealth's dirty work, hunting down fugitives or putting down riots and protests. If a tribe that was under the Commonwealth's control refused to pay tribute, we were sent in. We only got away after Doctor Heinzbrecht was kidnapped, the man in charge of our collars. Without the codes, the guards couldn't control us anymore so they locked us up deep underground, but we dug ourselves out. From the twenty-three of us held captive underground, only eleven of us escaped the grounds of the facility. The others didn't want to leave the Commonwealth, thinking that the President wouldn't dare send Fox Rangers to apprehend them on civilian territory, but we knew better."

Contra pulled out a packet of cigarettes while Rain rubbed her forehead. It had all made so much sense now, but her mind was muddled. This man who she had been traveling with had actually been an assassin, a butcher, a murderer. Sure, it was on orders, but people could always refuse their orders, she was sure that death was preferable then to work as an assassin of good men, but Wreythe saw the dark shadow creep over her eyes. "Girl, I don't do that sort of stuff anymore. Sure, I killed people, I'm not going to lie, but only bad people, I promise!"

"Babies?" Rain's hands were shaking slightly, while a vein in her neck seemed to pulse with anger.

Olly looked to Wreythe, confused. "Babies?"

"Did you kill any babies?" Rain clarified, her hands clenched into fists. "Did you kill any women or children?"

"Definitely not!" Olly quickly answered, swearing over his heart with his right hand, but Wreythe sighed. "Yes, we did. I'm not proud of it, but we had no choice, you don't understand…"

A loud smack resounded as Rain slapped Wreythe across the face, leaving a red mark. A stunned silence filled the air following the blow. Wreythe looked down in shock as tears poured angrily from Rain's eyes, her entire body shaking with anger. "There's always a choice," she said shakingly, her eyes full of malice. "You deserve to burn. All three of you deserve to burn." With that, Rain swept around and ran into the hotel, leaving the three men standing there alone.

"Babies, man? You wen' an' kill'd babies? You're sick man, sick," commented Contra, shaking his head as he walked into the night, smoking a cigarette.

The two ex-Wolves turned to one another, a bitter taste in their mouths. Olly swallowed dryly. "We can never escape our past, can we? We're always going to be outcasts."

"Maybe Olly, maybe."

Wandering inside, the two men ordered drinks and sat at a dark booth, noticing Rain wasn't in the hotel's casino or bar. It took less then ten minutes for Wreythe to explain their mission to Olly, who seemed genuinely surprised at the news that the Dear Johns arms company had traveled this far to the east, but Wreythe was interested to note that he didn't even bat an eye when Wreythe told him that there was a chance that Caesar wasn't dead.

"Well it wasn't a very thorough job, was it? Back in the old days we would have infiltrated that palace, found Caesar personally and put a bullet in his head, heart and balls, but there you go and just stick a bomb in the building. What the hell were you thinking?"  
"Man, he had guards right up the ass, there was no way in. I thought it would do the trick, turns out it didn't. But that's small fries compared to what I heard today I heard a rumor today, from your friend Pete."

Olly signaled to the barmaid to bring them another round. "What sort of rumor?"

"Someone destroyed Spheres Five and Six."

"I was meaning to talk to you about that." Olly leaned back and closed his eyes. "I met Sirus a few months ago, over west in Windy City. We had a few drinks, for old time's sake, and caught up a bit. He told me he had gone straight, had seen the errors of his ways. Joined the Followers of the Apocalypse even, and had been delivering food rations to some tribes up north. I can't believe I believed the slimy toad.

Anyway, I told him of a plan I had. You know how I told you back in the Commonwealth how my parents had come out to the States as ambassadors from the Irish Imperium, but secretly they were sent as spies to see how things fared in the 'New World'. Well, my folks had passed away and I thought I could cash in on their commission, maybe set myself up in good ol' Éireand all that. Well, Sirus never even got to Ireland, as we sailed through the Celtic Sea and were passing the eastern-most point of France, the bastard jumped overboard. None of the passengers had really liked him; he was rude, had cheated at cards and even broken one man's nose, so no attempt was made to rescue him. I didn't care too much, so I just let it be.

Well, as it turned out the Ceannaire of the Irish Imperium had no use for spies to America anymore, so I was turned aside. Of course they offered me a position as an accountant or law-officer, but I told them where they could stick it. But man, you should see things over there; completely untouched from war, plague or bombs. It's like the Great War never happened over there, but that greedy bastard in charge is keeping people down."

"So what happened then?" Wreythe asked, thanking the barmaid as she handed them their drinks.

"Well, about a month passed and I had whiled away the time at the tables, making a bit of small cash when I got a message. Sirus asked me if I could buy him a ticket back to the States on a boat, and that he'd pay me in gold and silver, large amounts of it. I thought 'fuck it, I'm done here,' so I bought tickets for the both of us to leave from Ireland a month from then. Sure enough, he arrived, all cut and bruised, and we left. The barge traveled south, hitting Sphere City first, and that's when I heard the news that two of the Spheres had been destroyed.

I didn't even dream that it was Sirus until we had gotten back to the States. I had woken up that morning smelling smoke and ash, and sure enough as I came out of the cabin I saw what had happened. The boat was burning; a fire had been spread in the stern and had spread. I collected my stuff, and while I found no sign of Sirus I did find about twenty nuggets of pure gold in my backpack, as well as a thank you note.  
We need to take care of him. For good."

"Yes," sighed Wreythe tiredly. "We do. But first I want to take care of business here. Know anything about where the Dear Johns are? We're sure as hell that these are the raiders Reno and Carson has been having problems with, or at least they are the ones supplying them."

"Guy," said Olly, grinning. "I got one of those caravan hustlers drunk just a few days ago; the Johns take their deliveries up to a little place called Deep Springs, where the raiders pick up the goods from and take it home. Go get a good night's rest, and I'll draw you a map in the morning."

* * *

Author's Note:  
Yes, fetus.  
Any feedback would be appreciated, any questions too. I'll be answering questions on a youtube video soon that i'll post the link to on my profile page.


	8. Chapter 8: Indian Springs

Author's Note:  
Don't you hate it when you write a chapter and completely forget that you did? Here it is, the eighth chapter that I wrote way back in February. Sorry about the looooong delay.

* * *

A lonely wigwam sat in the wasteland, surrounded by miles and miles of desert and rock. None traveled the road to the solitary abode, nor did the dweller leave his home to travel the roads. Pelts of leathers, treated from Brahmin-hide, covered the cone-shaped wigwam while a trail of smoke escaped a narrow hole in the roof. The resident had no fear of intruders, nor did he worry about risking his location by allowing the smoke to bring wanderers in search of the source. Only the animals of the ancient land, all seemingly-unaffected by the virus that poisoned the earth, would gather around his home and forage in the small patches of leafy green. A small field of potatoes and wheat was carefully managed outside in the wigwam in the softest dirt; just a few yards of tillable land where it was made clear to any outsider there there was indeed a person living this far out in the middle of nowhere; a person who lived in solitude and only ate the most basic of provisions that he or she could grow themselves, or take from the carcass of the animal they would hunt.

The animals had always known this dwelling to be there; it was there when men crossed the earth in metal plate with sharp sticks, it was there when the Bright Light shook the earth and the sky, and it was there even when man joined the birds in the sky for the first time. The wigwam was only a legend in the eyes of those who lived elsewhere, an impossible fairytale invented by adults to keep their children from wandering in this reinvented land. The wigwam would always stand there in its shade behind a solitary, lush tree. It would stand until the end of time when the world would suddenly come to a complete stop, and time would cease to exist. That was what the myths surrounding the lone dwelling foretold, but the owner had other thoughts.

A man dwelt within the wigwam; tiny and ancient, but by no means as ancient as the wigwam itself. He was a tired man, having lived for already one-hundred cycles of the Great Heat, but his spirit was as strong as ever and his eyesight undiminished. With him lived his only grandson; tall and strong, a warrior their people would have been proud of in days gone by. But their people were gone, yet another of earth's populations almost completely wiped out save a few scattered families who simply tried to survive, incapable of thriving as they once had.

White Bear was the old one's name; Matoskah in their old tongue, and it suited him well. White Bear had once been a mighty warrior for his people and had wandered the lands in search of the surviving tribes, reuniting lost families and laying to rest those whose spirits roamed the lands. But now it was his grandson who traveled outwards, who would travel to the north, south, east and west in search of adventure and trouble. He would right wrongs, he would remove the filth from their lands and most importantly of all, he would continue to gather those who shared their blood. At birth he was He Who Lives High, but now he was known amongst the white men as Red Thunder, a name that suited him well.

Red Thunder had seen the depths of depravity and the most basest acts of procreation that one could discover whilst wandering the wastes. The tall, robust youth had tackled smugglers, raiders and drug dealers in his efforts to cleanse Mother Nature from the filth that plagued her, doing as his father, grandfather and so on had done before him. It was their belief that once the scourge was defeated and the land once more filled with people of sound mind and sound faith, nature itself would once more flourish and the land would bloom into health once more.

But today Red Thunder was at rest in the home of his grandfather; his body knitting itself together from a bullet wound far quicker then a regular man's would. He was sitting bare-chested against the tree outside the wigwam when the stranger appeared in the distance. He was barely discernible to Red Thunder at this distance, but White Bear called him inside, and to rest easy. Ever trusting his grandfather's word, Red Thunder came inside and sat cross-legged, his palms pressed against each-other as he began to hum softly in ritual. White Bear sat in the center of the wigwam on his large red cushion, his shriveled body stirring only once as the pair waited for the stranger to arrive.

Red Thunder could hear the stranger reach the wigwam; pausing a moment before the tree to gaze up at it like all who passed did. Red Thunder felt his muscles grow taut as he felt the rage within him burn, the inner-beast begging him to be allowed to rip this intruder apart from limb-to-limb, but a single stern look from White Bear eased his body and cooled his beating heart. The stranger didn't offer any challenge or command to the inhabitants of the hut, no one ever did. Instead he simply pushed the flap aside and stepped inside, weapon holstered as all did. Confused, the stranger's blue eyes darted from White Bear to Red Thunder, then back to White Bear who gestured the stranger to sit.

The stranger was like no-one Red Thunder had ever seen before; while his dark-skin and braided hair barely set him apart from the common riffraff that Red Thunder encountered on his travels, the man was garbed in a black leather vest where decorated on the back was the flag of the former-United States of America. While a miscreant might have picked up a vest such as this just to wear as clothing, this man seemed proud of the symbol he wore, his eyes narrowing as he noticed Red Thunder eying his back. Red Thunder subconsciously began to analysis the man's appearance for any indication of corruption; his eyes were not dilated, his skin on his arms firm and unblemished while his heartbeat was both quiet and still. Seeing none of the signs, Red Thunder closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, disinterested. This was a visitor worthy of White Bear's attention, and Red Thunder was not required at all.

The stranger stirred impatiently in his seat on a spare cushion, unsure whether he should speak first or not. White Bear took away his choice in the matter.

"Why have you come here, Dream Chaser?" White Bear asked slowly. His age had taken a considerable toll on his body, but his mind was as sharp as ever, and his voice still strong if a bit gravely.

The stranger started, as if caught off guard by the name White Bear had given him. "I don't know who you think I am, old man. My name isn't Dream Chaser, my name is Ulysses-"

"You are Dream Chaser," interrupted White Bear. "You are Dream Chaser, and I am White Bear. He is Red Thunder. None of us are strangers now, and Red Thunder has shown great trust in you by allowing you entrance into my home. It takes much travel through the lands of the Great Plague and the Frozen Sand to reach my home, and none attempt this journey on purpose unless a great need draws them to me. What is your great need?"

Ulysses scratched the back of his neck, as if unsure what to say. "I guess... I guess that I wanted to find you. I'm not really sure, I just felt compelled to walk out here. I don't even know where here is," Ulysses admitted. "I was traveling the northern states when I ran into a tribe living in a decimated forest. It was horrible; they lived amongst the mutilated trees and prayed to Gods that didn't exist for the health and well-being of their children. Their children would die often, they told me. Only one-in-five ever made it to adulthood, most of them falling victim to genetic deterioration."

White Bear nodded. "The Southern Tribe, we know of their plight. They were the tribe to be caught closest to White Man's cities when the Bright Light filled the sky. My ancestors have passed down in lore of what had transpired that day, and we have kept it safe. Tell me, what of this once-great tribe? My grandson has not visited them in two cycles of snow already, and I am eager for news of my cousins."

"I stayed with them for a little while, hoping to get some sort of indication on why they were expiring so quickly. Some of them were lacking a limb, some of them sported extra tissue or rotten muscle. I had compiled a quick report to take with me to Alliance, where I was hoping the word would be spread that a large community of indigenous people were living in sickness, and hopefully a cure could be found to end their blight." Ulysses stopped at this point, as if lost in thought. White Bear watched carefully through his slitted eyes as Ulysses casually drew a small, gleaming green gem from his jeans pocket. "A woman came to me one night," he continued, but slowly, as if recounting a dream. "I had just celebrated with the tribal chiefs on what we thought would be the salvation of their people, and had gone to bed early claiming a headache bothered me. While I was lying in the shelter I had built, I heard the woman's voice call me from beyond the edge of the trees surrounding the tribe's camp. I went to her, and saw a woman of immense beauty; her skin was without blemish, her long hair the color of midnight and her eyes as deep and mysterious as the night sky. She wore the same sort of garb you yourself wear, but only it was pure white, like snow."

Red Thunder's eyes opened at this, interested in the story now, but White Bear began to hum softly. His eyes, though open, were unseeing. Hesitating, Ulysses glanced once at Red Thunder who nodded his head for Ulysses to continue.

"While she was beautiful, I didn't have any urge to claim her. She seemed... almost sacred. She didn't say anything to me, but instead gestured so that I would follow her. We traveled an hour to the north-west, before we stopped on a mountain ridge and gazed back the way we had come."Ulysses once more hesitated, but this time it was because the next part of his story was causing him much grief. "If I knew what would have happened, I wouldn't have had left with the woman. I could have stayed and fought, but instead I could only watch from a distance as I heard gunshots and explosions rock the tribal village and a great flame roared into the sky. I looked to my left to the woman, but she was gone, not even her tracks remained. I only found myself this far north since I didn't dare head south again until I was sure the invaders had left."

His story finished, Ulysses only then realized how tense he was. Rubbing his forearms, he waited patiently as White Bear continued to hum. Red Thunder, however, gestured for Ulysses to take the cushion a spare blanket and make himself comfortable. "White Bear is conferring with the Great Spirit, for your story leaves much to ponder. Go and rest for now, in the morning White Bear will talk to you."

It wasn't even dawn when Ulysses felt himself woken by strong hands shaking his shoulder. Leaning up against the side of the wigwam, Ulysses was shocked to see White Bear sitting in the exact same position as he had been in the evening. Seeing Ulysess awake finally, Red Thunder left the wigwam with his shovel and bow, a quiver of arrows slung over his back.

"Dream Chaser, you are. Yet you were not always such, were you? A killer of men, a destroyer of dreams and finder of the lost. The Great Spirit spoke to me as you told us your tale and as you slept." White Bear stopped momentarily, letting pure white sand sift slowly through his clenched fist. "And just as all dreams come to an end, so has yours."

"Wait, what do you mean? I'm not dying, am I?"

White Bear laughed, his old body shaking with the effort. "No, you are not. The woman you met was PtesanWi, or White Buffalo Calf Woman. She saved your life for a reason, and that reason had been made clear to me last night. You were meant to come here, and you were meant to take up arms and drive the invaders away from the lands of the Sioux with my grandson."

"No, that's not right," argued Ulysses, standing up. "I'm supposed to head south, to Phoenix. There's a friend of mine who's going to pass through there soon, I need to catch him. I can't go back and fight these raiders."

White Bear slowly rose, keeping his eyes trained on Ulysses. "Dream Catcher, the Great Spirit told me that you must head far to the south, to the city of the burning bird. The raiders originate there, so you cannot escape the sands of fate. You, Red Thunder and Wandering Spectre must meet and fight the white men who have enslaved our young and murdered my people."

"But, how did you know who I was meeting?" Ulysses was taken aback; he was sure he had never mentioned Wreythe's name in their presence, and reaching into his pocket he found the letter he had received days before still in its envelope. But White Bear didn't answer; instead he seemed to shrink as he laid himself down onto his cushion and fell promptly asleep. Watching the strange old man for a minute, Ulysses picked up his pack and went outside to find a waiting Red Thunder, his own pack on and a well-maintained rifle in hand. "Let's go, we've got much road to travel."

Shrugging, Ulysses followed the taller man as they left the shade of the tree and set course for Arizona.

* * *

Over a thousand miles away, another duo was bickering over the accuracy of the map they followed while traveling through a light sandstorm. The maker of the map, Thomas Samuel O'Laighin, was busy trying to placate his old friend and former-comrade, Dyson Wreythe. The pair of them had gotten exceedingly drunk the night before they had set off, which led to Samuel making more then a few errors on the map. In fact, O'Laighin had managed to draw the entire map without including a single road, mountain or town, something that Wreythe thought was quite a bloody inconvenient accomplishment. An entire damn map, which was supposed to traverse around two hundred miles and now they didn't even have a single landmark on which to orientate themselves. What's more, O'Laighin had neglected to mention that he himself had only made a trip in that direction once, and that it was actually the barkeep back in the Bonnie Springs Hotel who had reminded him that they should be heading north-west instead of south-west like O'Laighin thought.

"Why the fuck would you offer to take me if you didn't even know the fucking way? I don't fucking get it!" Wreythe shouted, just about ready to pound the dodgy Irishman into the ground. "This is actually serious, you know?"

"Come on, come on, I kinda forgot. Don't worry, I recognize that hill." O'Laighin pointed towards a pair of particularly stout dirt hills that heralded their way further into the mountainous region they had to cross.

"Those hills?"

"Yeah."

"Those fucking hills? Why the fuck would you remember a pair of hills, but not whether or not there was any towns or tribes on the way? Do you realize we''re now just walking in this direction because you just happened to know its this way? What if Deep Springs is off the main road?"  
"Oh shut your whinin' mouth, I told you we should have popped into Vegas for a drink first."

Less then two miles away, another pair of travelers were busy trying to work out their own course. Rain Munroe slapped a hand to her head in frustration as Contra laughed loudly at her suggestion to go back and hire a car or something. Rain had come downstairs in the morning only to find Contra forcing a timid-looking businessman from Reno to draw him a map to Deep Springs. As Contra explained it, he had only pretended to walk after the confrontation last night and had actually just tailed the ex-agents and listened in on their conversation. Rain was jubilant at the news; she had gone to sleep with the grim thought that she would have to head back and report her mission to be a failure, but now the fiery-haired woman was full of hope once more.

However, her hope had faded as quickly as it had arrived when she realized the route the pair must take.

"You realize we'll be going into Monk Lands? The NCR doesn't dare to send a patrol into their land without an escort vehicle of some type." Rain expected a reaction, but not the stupid grin Contra flipped her. Forcefully calming herself down, Rain counted to five before continuing. "You've heard of the Mad Monks, haven't you?"

"Nope."

Rain breathed slowly in, squeezing her eyes shut. "I am. Going to. Die," she said in short bursts, her heart already beating faster. "We're both going to die."

"Don' b' like dat, jus' tell me 'ready."

"Around twenty years ago, the NCR was barely even an infant when a force of outsiders came down from the north. Tandi tells us that they were covered head-to-toe in warm furs, and carried weapons from across the oceans. They spoke in a strange tongue, rough and sharp, but could speak our language well enough to offer their terms of our surrender.

My superior, Major Hackett, was barely a teen when they broke into Shady Sands the first time. He told me about the men who rode on the wild animals they tamed from the north; galloping Kumabig with their four hoofs thrashing out as they road past us, their tails of steel whipping back and forth. The casualties alone from the slices and cuts their mounts caused was supposed to be high, but the riders themselves were like demons incarnate. Barely two-thirds of the people of Shady Sands were alive, and countless were wounded. Immediately Aradesh, the leader at the time, rallied together all the towns near Shady Sands and counter-attacked the riders, driving them back north. There they settled themselves down, and publicly proclaimed themselves 'Mad Monks'."

"Hmmm, dat is interestin'," admitted Contra, rubbing his stubbly chin. "I'm thinkin' 'bout how' 'da hell dey would wear those big coats in dis heat."

"Are you mentally deficient? They're ruthless killers, they'd wear use our skins as capes."

"I want a Kumabig..."

Further down the winding broken road, Wreythe had finally held himself back and not beaten O'Laighin into submission. Both men had between them worked out that if Deep Springs was off the main road then surely a sign will point them in the right direction once they got close enough. Wreythe couldn't stay angry at the rogue; they had simply spent too much time watching each-others' backs when they were Wolf Rangers and knew other far too well to stab the other over a badly-drawn map.

Both men had made a point not to mention Rain or Contra as they walked; Wreythe out of sheer misery while O'Laighin knew his friend too well to bring up a topic like that. He knew the pain that Wreythe felt in his heart; he felt it too. They had both been made to do things they'd never dream of doing, but for some reason there was something different now. Neither one had told their story to anyone else before, and like Ulysses and Sirus they had agreed that they had no choice but to murder the innocent when threatened with death. But now their conscience was more then a little troubled; Rain had been right in her assessment. At any time the Wolf Rangers could have refused an assignment and been killed, but at least their souls would still be pure. Wreythe sighed and turned his attention back onto the road.

The dirt and sand soon turned to rock as the pair moved further out of the Mojave into the rocky mountains of the north. The further the pair went down the road, the harder it was to keep to the road. Sections of the mountains had been severely changed by the force of the Great War all those years ago; portions of the asphalt had caved in and formed deep, bottomless pits while half a mountain appeared to have fallen on another part. A small community of rats lived in the flattened town they discovered after almost a full day's walk from Bonnie Springs, and the pair carefully crept through the ruins, weapons drawn.  
Only a handful of buildings remained in Indian Springs, and none of those had bared the brunt of age well. Neither Wreythe nor O'Laighin had trusted the heavily dilapidated structures, and instead opted to sleep by the deformed airstrip in a camouflage tent Wreythe had picked up in Bonnie Springs. The sun had already been down for too long, Wreythe decided and was anxious to get to sleep.

"Who's taking first shift?" O'Laighin asked, assault rifle drawn and in hand as he came back from surveying their perimeter.

"I guess I will, I don't trust those rats at all. Knew a guy down in Bakersfield, had his big toe chomped right off while he was sleeping." Wreythe took his tattered coat off and shook it, dumping a whole heap of dirt that had built up during the sandstorm earlier in the day.

"Trying to make me lose my sleep you dodgy bastard? Wake me if anything comes up."  
O'Laighin tossed aside the flap of their tent and collapsed in a tired heap. While not a stranger to adventure and heavy-travel, the Irishman knew that it would be several more days of all-day travel before the pair reached Deep Springs and he definitely did not relish the thought of walking that much. Falling asleep quickly, the Irishman wasn't awake when Wreythe distinctly heard voices only an hour after setting down camp.

Curious, Wreythe fished in his pocket for his rifle scope and attached it to the Remington before laying down. He had a clear view of eastern entrance of the ruins, and sure enough soon a chattering pair had stopped directly next to the eastern-most house and drawn their own weapons. It was possibly only half a mile between the pairs, and Wreythe was beginning to get nervous. He wouldn't completely deny the thought that perhaps House had sent his own spies to follow Wreythe after the incident outside Goodsprings, but he got the feeling House wouldn't have sent two bumbling, loud spies who were as inconspicuous as a cow relaxing in a hot tub.

Crawling closer, Wreythe slowly edged his way further into the ruined town. His eyes were trained solely on the pair of travelers as he navigated the rock and rubble without a sand, utilizing every stealth technique he had been taught. Behind him, O'Laighin began to softly snore, quiet but slowly progressing in volume. Wreythe swore; he had no way of quickly getting back and shutting him up. Luckily however the strangers had not heard O'Laighin, and indeed had entered one of the dilapidated homes. Watching the taller of the two lug in two large backpacks, Wreythe sighed with relief as he recognized Contra's exceedingly tall frame.

Knowing that two friendlies were the ones to enter the ruins brought a smile of relief to Wreythe's face, but inside he was still worried. If Rain and Contra had managed to follow him, then who knew who else had. Not only that, he had no idea how Rain would react when faced with him again. He imagined her running up to him, pistol drawn and ready to pop him one in the face, or more likely Rain would be one to handcuff him then to leave him out to rot. Frankly, he wasn't sure that she wouldn't be right to do it.

Lowering his rifle, Wreythe smirked as he heard the aggravated voices of Rain and Contra begin to shout at one-another, each refusing to stand guard first, claiming to be more tired then the other.

Only a few minutes had gone by when a hand tapped him by the leg, Wreythe spinning around to find O'Laighin standing behind him, smoking a cigarette casually.

"Our guests are quite loud, aren't they?"

Wreythe nodded, then waved his hand lazily at the house. "They aren't exactly the most experienced wanderers. Neither knew how to track, forage or hunt properly, but that might be because neither one of them has ever really gone out on their own. Not everyone has been through what we've had to endure."

"So what do we do?"

Wreythe wasn't even sure himself. "I guess just go back to sleep. We'll leave this shithole an hour or so after them, then we'll tail them while we head to Deep Springs. How do you think they know where we're going?" But he didn't need to hear O'Laighin's answer; the way they had found out was irrelevant after all, and it was clear that the bartender in Bonnie Springs could be easily persuaded to spill the beans if Rain just put a little effort into it.

"A thought does occur to me though; why are we still here if Miss NCR now knows where to go? Why not just let her take care of this? Didn't you tell me earlier that you only came to the West Coast to pick up a tape or something?" O'Laighin asked thoughtfully, his left hand playing with his foppish mustache. To be honest, Wreythe had wondered the same thing to himself.

"I don't really know, but I'm not going to try. I was in Los Angeles for barely ten minutes when I was caught by their sentry and a whole team of guards. I don't fancy trying again any time soon, unless you've found some ultra high-tech stealth device? Like a hand-held unit that can basically make us see-through?"

"No, I don't." O'Laighin answered flatly. "But that's something to dream about. But tell me about this job your on right now, you haven't mentioned it at all."

"You know Grainyard, right? Well I was down there just two months ago after chasing up some bounties, Susan Strap-Arm and her little side-kick, Rolph. Well I found the pair down in the saloon down there and we quickly got in a fight, but you know me; they didn't stand a chance in hell. After I realized there was no real way of getting the heads up to Denver, nor was there any way I was gonna get paid for dumping two gleaming skulls on the sheriff's desk."

"Skulls?"

Wreythe grinned sheepishly. "I kinda went overboard. Anyways, I was kind of pissed off, so I thought I'd do something small, so I went to the mayor. The guy had heard of me and my reputation and offered me a job. At first I didn't really feel like traveling to Los Angeles; I'd kinda made a habit of leaving the West Coast alone, but then he mentioned he'd given another wanderer the same mission. Turned out Ulysses had been in Grainyard not too long before me, and had been very interested in this letter that the mayor had wanted him to pick up."

"So why didn't Ulysses do it?"

"As it turned out, he did. He'd come back to Grainyard and flipped off the mayor before disappearing up north. I sent a courier off to find Ulysses if possible, I was hoping he could help me find the letter so I can get this job over and done with. But Ulysses never came to Phoenix; instead the courier found me in Phoenix and told me Ulysses would meet me there when I'm done in the West Coast. I don't know if he's there now, or on his way, but it'd be great to find out what got him so-"

The sounds of hoofs beating against dry earth startled Wreythe for a moment, but he followed O'Laighin's lead and jumped down and laid still. The noise was echoing throughout the valley, and soon Wreythe saw Contra edge a rifle out of the ruined building. Wreythe had only heard this sort of sound once before, back when he was traveling the dustlands and spotted the wild animals that thundered in packs across the horizon. Many a traveler had seen the animals, but never up close. It was the same sound of hoofs; a regular pattern on the earth in four beats, only this time the noise seemed to be getting closer.

Inside the building, Rain had heard the noise and immediately jumped up and barricaded the front door while Contra settled his gun upon a window mantle.

"I told you, we're going to die!" Rain wailed as the beating hoofs progressed in volume and closeness. Once again she felt like she was weak, like she was a nothing but a doll that could be smashed over and over, but Contra threw her a grin. Although she'd never admit it, Rain wished she could be as reckless as the ex-Legionnaire. He'd shown remarkable strength of will over the course of their trip; even getting shot hadn't put a damper to his spirit. He was completely at ease with the situation while she was scared shit-less, and he'd been in serious combat far more times then she had.

Picking up her own gun, Rain drew the compact SUB-2000's extendable barrel out and slammed a full clip of ammunition into the gun. While no veteran of war or crack-shot, there was no way Rain planned to go down without a fight. She gritted her teeth as she thought of the alternative. At best, the raiders would just shoot her and be done with it, but at worst... she shuddered at the possibilities. Contra would probably just be shot or sold as a slave, but Rain knew that in this case her appearance could get her in big trouble.

Both travelers holed up in the ruined building could now hear the whoops and cheers emanating from down the road, each shout echoing back and forth across the mountains as if a war of the gods was playing itself out right above their heads. Rain couldn't stand the suspense of knowing her enemy was coming right for her and there was nothing she could do.

"What's the plan?" She asked Contra in a futile effort of calming herself down. "Are we going to wait, or do you want me to cover you...?"

"He comes, den we blast 'is 'ead open like a grape." Contra demonstrated by holding his index finger and thumb barely an inch apart then closing the gap quickly. "I don' think dere's more den one anyway."

Outside the building, Wreythe had just come to the same conclusion as he heard Contra's comment through the pounding rhythm that played across the valley. Listening with his keen senses, Wreythe realized there was only a quarter-second delay between each set of hoofs hitting the ground, which meant only a single creature ran towards them. Wreythe sat up in a kneeling position, his tattered cloak falling around him as he raised his Remington to his eye as he attempted to see the approaching target. Next to him O'Laighin had taken out a pair of old binoculars and had trained them on the east entrance of town.

Barely visible through the darkness of night was a figure on a horse. But Wreythe quickly corrected himself, no horse had six legs. Running through the town at top speed was a Kumabig, and riding wildly on its back was a very familiar face, but Wreythe couldn't remember where he remembered it from exactly.

Inside the building, both Rain and Contra realized the same thing as the Kumabig and it's rider came into view. Rain had sneaked a peek out of the window, hoping to see her doom before it killed her, but instead a bizarre sight had met her. Neither one of them could place the face, but they both thought of Goodsprings. They both watched perplexed as the rider came nearer and nearer to their shelter,and just as it seemed the rider had spotted their silhouetted figures in the open. It definitely wasn't a Mad Monk, Rain worked out as she wracked her brain in thought; the Mad Monks were notorious for only attacking in large groups and have never been spotted as a solitary entity.

Suddenly a loud crack forced Rain to duck back from the window as a trio of shots rang out; two striking the building while one bounced off a rock outside the building.

"Fuckin' bastard!" Contra exclaimed, his cheek having been sliced by a piece of shrapnel. "Didn' even see da guy fire."

A rifle fired from just outside the building, this time making both Rain and Contra jump in shock; someone was right outside their cover!

Contra knocked over a pest-infected wooden table and took cover behind it, grabbing Rain on the way. They both sat back against the cool table as they listened to the skirmish outside. Shots would fire from nearby, being answered by both sub machine-gun fire and assault rifle volleys. Rain tried to point out to Contra that there were at least three different groups outside, but the dark-skinned man was shaking off her incessant worries. While he wouldn't tell her, Contra had recognized the rifle outside as having the distinct firing sound of a Remington and knew as likely as not that it was Wreythe out there, a theory reinforced as he heard the ex-assassin shout in anger as a bullet clipped him. He knew that he and Rain would probably only get in the professional mercenary's way so he stayed behind the make-shift cover with the inexperienced and very-frightened girl. Contra remembered vividly his own introduction to war, and knew exactly what Rain was going through.

A small explosion blasted dirt and rubble inside the building as giant broom had swept it inside, a small rock catching Contra on the forehead as Rain ducked flat on the ground, her ears aching. Contra could hear similar explosions begin to shake the ground, and surmised that one of the parties had acquired a stock of grenades and were using them to their full effect.

A screeching wail tore the air as the Kumabig was shot through the neck and torso simultaneously, heralding a monstrous cry of anger from the rider. Contra listened in fascination as an intense volley of fire sprayed against the side of their building, one or two bullets even flying through the window to thud into the table harmlessly.

The door broke open without warning and two figures scrambled inside, firing out of the door behind them. Contra peeked over the table to see both Wreythe and O'Laighin panting heavily, sweat dripping from their foreheads.

"Yo' both 'right?" Contra asked over the din of combat.

"Yeah, we're both fuckin' super," shouted back O'Laighin in his unrestrained Irish accent. "I'm hopin' t' catch the next screenin' of 'Little Lucy Penhold' down in Dover before the summer, but first w' gotta kill these assholes!"

"Shut the hell up and shoot!" Screamed Wreythe as he flipped onto his side, a trail of bullets hitting the ground he had been lying on just a second ago. Immediately another figure ran and fell into the building, skidding to a stop against the wooden table. Looking over the lip of the table, Contra was shocked to see the Kumabig Rider.

"Hey, weren' yo' dat other person in da Doc's-"

But the intruder just shot Contra a thumb's up then knelt, combat rifle spitting a hail of bullets out the door. But Contra knew for a fact who it was, and Wreythe's incredulous expression upon seeing the newcomer was proof enough. She was young, with bleached-hair and shining blue eyes that seemed to dart this way and that in excitement as her AR-15 spoke death to their attackers.

"Who's over there?" Rain asked, no longer holding her hands to her ears. But Contra didn't answer, so the young woman peered over the side of the table. There before her was the other patient from Goodsprings, as well as a wounded Wreythe; his arm clutched over his shoulder as he drew his sidearm and continued to fire. O'Laighin had crouched behind the partially-opened door, and was carefully timing his shots when their attackers were busy reloading.

A bullet thudded into the table in front of her, making Rain pull her head back, but not before seeing the rippling flag of the Mad Monks swinging far outside through the window.


End file.
